


Interwoven

by storyandshark



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Action, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Except not really?, Lots of plot, M/M, Slow Burn, Web!Martin, it's all kind of weird tbh, lots of worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-15
Updated: 2019-05-18
Packaged: 2019-10-11 01:18:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 108,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17437148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storyandshark/pseuds/storyandshark
Summary: Scion City. A town full of superheroes, supervillains, and constant danger and excitement. At the center of it all,Scion City Times, the most prestigious paper in the city, working to report the activities of the superhumans that call Scion City home.As Jon and Martin, along with their colleagues Tim and Sasha, cover current events, they discover cryptic notes left by Gertrude Robinson, former reporter, now corpse. Unbeknownst to the rest of them, Martin’s started working a second job: he's recently donned a mask and become a superhero. A job that becomes more difficult as Jon tries to unravel the mysteries of the city, even as it makes him a target. Together, they're going to have to uncover the conspiracy that surrounds Scion City, or they're going to have to die trying.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First time posting a multi-chapter work y'all let's go.
> 
> Comments and feedback are appreciated!

Jon’s day is relatively normal before he almost dies. Of course, ‘normal’ is completely different in Scion City as compared to anywhere else, but it's not every day you get attacked by a superhuman, even for Jon. It's especially not every day you get attacked by the Boneturner. In retrospect, Jon should have anticipated that the Boneturner might actually be in the abandoned butcher shop that's been one of his bases over the past few years, but he'd been so focused on research for the newest profile article that he'd completely ignored the possibility. He's regretting that now as he sprints through streets and back alleys in the middle of the night to try and shake the Boneturner off. Based on the too-heavy footsteps behind him, it's not working.

He runs down another alleyway, nearly tripping over several trash bags on the ground next to a dumpster. The Boneturner does trip, surprisingly enough, giving Jon enough time to get a lead. A lead that doesn't help, because the alley is cut off by a tall chainlink fence. One that Jon won't be able to get over before the Boneturner reaches him. He's trapped.

“Shit,” he mutters, turning to face the Boneturner, who’s walking toward him with a huge grin on his… well, it _is_ a face, even if it doesn't look like one.

“You work for the paper?” the Boneturner says, voice a deep rasp that sounds like it's coming from something other than vocal chords.

Jon tries to move away and feels his back hit the fence. “I- yes, I work for the paper.” Maybe if he can keep him talking…

He tries not to think about the corpses the Boneturner tends to leave behind, organs crushed by the weight of their own skin when he pulls their bones out to add them to himself.

The Boneturner lets out a throaty laugh, a sound like two bones grinding together. He's close enough now that if he wanted to, he could reach out with one of his several elongated arms and touch Jon. That's all it would take, just a touch. Jon feels his breath stop short of his lungs as he tries to sink further into the fence. There's no way he can get around the Boneturner; the misshapen arms can stretch to both sides of the alley. Jon tries to say something, to stall for time until he can think, but the words don’t make it out of his mouth. He's going to die.

The Boneturner reaches toward him with three of his arms. Jon tries to shrink away, but there's nowhere he can go. There has to be something, _anything_ he can do, but there's nothing. You can't fight the Boneturner, you can't run from the Boneturner. The only thing Jon can recall at the moment is that he must be weak to fire, since it was Blaze that beat him last time, but Jon doesn't have fire and the Boneturner’s clearly toying with him now because he has his hands on the fence on either side of Jon and is laughing all the while, and Jon is going to die.

“I’ve always wanted to find one of you,” the Boneturner says, and Jon cringes away at the feel of his hot breath. “Can you see into my head? Hm? There anything in there?”

Jon continues struggling to breathe, barely managing to choke out a reply. “I- I don't- I don't know what you're talking about.”

The Boneturner’s head cocks to the side, some of the extra bones in his neck cracking and snapping. “No? Ah.” He appears to think for a moment, though Jon’s not sure how much of that he can do. “Shame.”

The fence rattles as the Boneturner releases it and moves to touch Jon, but before he can, there's the sound of an impact and something bursting. The Boneturner stumbles forward and Jon catches a glimpse of a trash bag split open on the ground just behind the Boneturner. He thinks he sees someone standing at the other end of the alley, but it's too dark to tell and they disappear before he can even be sure if they're there at all. The Boneturner turns his head to look, rotating it all the way around like an owl.

“Who’s there?” he calls, the rest of his body rotating to face the same direction.

One of the trash bags slides a few feet across the ground. The Boneturner bellows and runs at the movement, apparently not even bothering to notice the fact that there's clearly no one moving it. Jon freezes for a second, trying to process what's going on. He starts to turn and try to climb the fence, but he feels something touch his shoulder and shouts in surprise, frantically diving to the side to try and get away. But it's not the Boneturner. It's a long strand of some nearly transparent material, extending down from somewhere above him.

“Grab on,” says a voice from somewhere above him.

The Boneturner’s head snaps back around. Jon doesn't really know what's going on, but whoever this new person is must be better than the Boneturner. He takes hold of the strand of… whatever it is, and nearly gets his arms torn out of their sockets as he's sharply pulled upward. His legs hit the fence and he nearly collides with the brick wall, but someone catches him before he does and pulls him up into an open window. He tumbles down to the floor, the air knocked out of him as he lands on his back.

“Sorry! Sorry, I didn't think- um,” the person who pulled him up says, helping him get to his feet, “I guess I- I just don't know my own strength.”

Jon gets his first good look at the person, and it just serves to make him more confused. In Jon’s line of work, it's vital to have at least passing knowledge of every superhuman in Scion City, but Jon doesn't know who this is. It's a man, based on both the build and the voice, though he's much softer around the edges than many of the superhumans, and his demeanor seems… small, comparatively. He has a dark gray suit and mask. Over the suit is a circular cloak colored black on the outside and gold on the inside, fastened around his neck and draped over his shoulders, stopping at his waist. The mask is covered in golden yellow lines in the pattern of spiderweb. These, along with the gold spider insignia on his chest, give Jon a moment of panic. Jon's encountered one of the Web’s ilk in the past and barely escaped with his life. But those thoughts evaporate after a second as the man continues apologizing profusely and asking if Jon is okay.

“It’s alright, I’m fine,” Jon says, reaching up to adjust his glasses from where they were knocked off center.

“Oh, good.” The man looks over Jon’s shoulder, his oval shaped optic units widening. “That's… less good.”

Jon turns to look. There's a hand on the windowsill, fingers pointed with shards of bone almost bursting through the skin. A second hand just like it appears, then a third. As the fourth hand grasps for the windowsill and the Boneturner begins to pull himself up, the man shoulders his way past Jon and slams the window down on the Boneturner’s fingers. The Boneturner howls and drops three stories back to the ground when the man pulls the window back up again. Several of his leg bones break with a sickening crack.

Jon wishes he hadn't dropped his camera after the Boneturner started chasing him, because if there was anything of this encounter to get on tape, this would be it. The superhuman in the spider suit jumps out the window. He doesn't fall and break his legs on the ground as one might expect, but just… stops falling. He stands in the air, balancing on nothing. Jon leans out the window a bit, and the light of a car passing by the alley’s entrance reveals the thin strand of webbing suspended between the two buildings.

The Boneturner gets back to his feet, using one of his pairs of arms to adjust his legs, bones visibly shifting underneath the skin. Once he's finished that, he starts to make his arms longer, adding bones and stretching the skin in ways skin shouldn't be stretched. The unknown superhuman dodges away from the Boneturner’s grasping hands, appearing to simply step through the air, dancing gracefully (well, almost gracefully, he's stumbling a bit) on nothing. As he moves, he's doing something with hands, tracing lines and circles and making jagged connections between. Jon doesn't recognize it as anything specific, but the patterns are close enough to general materialization powers: mapping something to be pulled through to the real world.

“Ugh, stop moving!” the man says in frustration, though at himself or the Boneturner Jon’s not sure.

The Boneturner takes the opportunity to snag one of the lines of webbing. Jon doesn't think it snaps, but it bends down enough that the man loses his balance and nearly falls. He grabs hold of another line a few feet down, well within the Boneturner’s reach. Instead of staying on the webs, the man drops down to the ground in a tuck and roll, then takes off for the entrance of the alley. The Boneturner has to take a moment to shrink his limbs back down to a manageable size, then snaps his body around. The man stops and turns back toward the Boneturner, and the two of them stare each other down, waiting for the other to blink first, whatever blinking means in this situation.

The man raises his hands again, and the Boneturner charges him, two pairs of hands extended. Then he stops. At first Jon can't completely tell what happened, but as he leans farther out the window, he can just make out the huge spiderweb stretching across the entire alleyway. The Boneturner twists and writhes, trying to use his sharp edges to cut himself free, but all it does is entangle him further. It doesn't seem like he's strong enough to break through it. He howls in anger, using his one free arm to swipe at the man on the other side of the web. The man just ducks under a corner of the web, carefully avoiding the thrashing Boneturner, and walks back to under Jon’s window.

“I assume you’re not planning on leaving me up here?” Jon says.

“No, just- just let me think for a second.” The man pauses, then continues. “I’ll just make a line for you to slide down on, if you’re- if you’re okay with that.”

“I’d just like to get down.” While this will make for an interesting piece sometime tomorrow, Jon doesn't particularly care for being stuck here, especially with the Boneturner nearby.

The man makes a downward gesture with one hand, and a new line of web materializes in front of the window. Tentatively, Jon takes hold of it and climbs out the window. The web is a bit sticky, but smooth and easy enough to slide down. He hits the ground a bit harder than anticipated and staggers, then rights himself and wipes his hands off on his jeans. The web vanishes as quickly as it appeared.

After a moment of awkward silence, Jon says, “Well, um, thank you.”

“Oh! You’re welcome.” The man extends a hand for a handshake, which Jon takes. “I’m-” He cuts himself off. “Er, I guess I'm not really sure.”

So he isn't just a superhuman Jon didn't know, he's one that hasn't even established himself yet. “Jonathan Sims,” Jon says. “ _Scion City Times_.”

The man lets go, stepping back just a bit. “Oh, yes, I knew that. Um, I mean, I read your articles. I guess it's kind of difficult not to. You can't really not read the paper if you're going to… fight crime.” He laughs, though it sounds mostly forced.

“Right,” Jon says, the slight pride of being recognized overshadowed by his trepidation at being the least knowledgeable party here.

“Oh, that reminds me, do you have your phone on you? I think the police would like to know about him.” The man gestures over his shoulder at the Boneturner.

“No. I dropped it somewhere.” Otherwise, Jon would have recorded something, or at least taken pictures.

The man hesitates, then starts walking down the alley toward the Boneturner. “I can call the police. You just- you just need to get somewhere safer than here.”

Jon follows behind him, warily eying the Boneturner has they approach. “Yes, I… would rather like to get away from him.”

As they reach the Boneturner, the man lifts up the web for Jon to duck underneath it. Jon manages to stay away from the Boneturner as he steps out onto the sidewalk, though it's still much closer than he'd like to be. The Boneturner looks at him, and his face turns up in a grin once again.

“You don't know nothing, paper boy,” the Boneturner says, trying and failing to rip one of his arms free. “I think I might know more than you, and I've never been the sharpest.”

“And what is that?” Jon asks.

The Boneturner just smiles and stubbornly, infuriatingly, refuses to talk. The man is talking on the other side of the web, probably making the call to the police.

“What do I not know?” Jon demands.

Nothing but a grin filled with too many teeth that don't belong.

The man steps out from under the web, preventing any more questioning. “Will you be okay from here? The police will probably want you to answer questions anyway.”

“Yes, I’m- I’ll be fine. I'll wait here.” Jon would really rather not be around the Boneturner any more than necessary, but it would be better than relying on a cab being in a less populated part of town this late at night.

“Alright. Dispatcher said that they should be here in maybe five minutes, so…” The man shuffles awkwardly. “I guess I’ll get going.”

As he turns to leave, Jon calls after him. “Wait.” The man looks back. “Who are you?”

“I’m- um- well, I don't really have a name or anything yet, and I can't really tell you my real name. I’m not- I’m not with the Web, if that's what you’re asking, much too much murder and destruction on the Web’s side. I’m just- just trying to stop people like him, I guess. I’m just trying to help.”

“‘Just trying to help,’” Jon echoes.

The man nods, pauses a moment, then takes off. He springs up to the rooftops, with extra leverage provided by web lines he creates on the way up, and disappears, leaving Jon alone. Except for the Boneturner, who’s still grinning sinisterly. Jon considers trying to follow the new superhuman, proving his journalistic integrity, uncovering more answers, but that idea is shot down as soon as he has it. How tired he really is hasn’t hit him until now, when the adrenaline’s begun to wear off, and his legs are sorer than he realized. He’ll go home tonight, get what sleep he can manage. After he gives his statement to the police, anyhow.

As flashing red and blue appear at the end of the street, accompanied by the howl of sirens, Jon looks to the Boneturner.

“I don't suppose you have a camera?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to my friend Casey for doing art things and helping me with the suit design.
> 
> Not thanks to my friend Casey for turning my conversation about spider factoids into... something else. You know what you did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Boneturner Apprehended: Mysterious New Hero Defeats Flesh Agent in Back Alley Fight**

By Sasha James, _Scion City Times_

UNFINISHED. DO NOT PUBLISH.

(SCT) - The Boneturner, a prominent associate of the superhuman known as the Flesh, was arrested and taken into police custody late Tuesday night. The Boneturner has been convicted of over twenty charges of murder in the first degree, fifteen charges of aggravated assault, and two charges of burglary within the last five years. After escaping police custody in late March, he disappeared for a period of several months, after which police concluded he escaped the city.

“He just vanished,” says Officer Sylvia Matthews, one of the officers that apprehended the Boneturner after locating him in September 2013. “It really seemed like he was gone. I guess we were wrong.”

The Boneturner’s location was discovered by investigative reporter Jonathan Sims of _Scion City Times._ According to Sims, he believed he had discovered one of the Boneturner’s hideouts in an abandoned butcher’s shop. After several minutes of investigation by Sims, the Boneturner returned to the shop, and upon finding Sims there, gave chase. Several Scion City residents witnessed part of the chase and notified the police, though they were not able to find the Boneturner’s location until the later call.

“I was just going to be when I heard this noise outside my flat,” claims a resident who wishes to remain anonymous. “I look out the window and I just see this massive, misshapen guy running down the street. And when I say he was big, I mean he was _big_. I live on the second story and his head was level with the window. I would have called the police, except I was so stunned; I had no clue what was going on.”

The Boneturner cornered Sims in an alley off Bradley Road. [Note: Tim, as soon as you’re done transcribing Jon’s interview, please send it to me so I can quote it.]

Before the Boneturner was able to injure Sims in any way, he was interrupted by an unknown superhuman man. While the the man allegedly had spider-based powers, he claimed he had no allegiance to the Web. The superhuman has not issued an official identity declaration, but has been given the title of

\----

“Any progress on potential names?” Sasha asks the three other people at the office table over her laptop.

Tim stretches his arms up over his head and leans back in his chair. “Nope. Don't have anything. Martin?”

Martin is hunched over his computer and doesn't seem to be paying attention, just responding with a “Hm.”

“Well, Jon, you were there,” Sasha says, turning to the man in question. “What do you think we should call him?”

Jon is very tired, and has very little patience for trying to puzzle out a name at the moment. “I don't know,” he says flatly. “Elias didn't hire me for my imagination or creativity.”

Tim scoffs. “Yeah, he hired you for your reckless stupidity. Seriously, what the hell were you thinking, going to investigate the Boneturner alone?”

“I didn't think he'd actually _be_ there,” Jon says defensively.

“Yeah, says the one who's been convinced for the past several months that he never left the city,” Tim shoots back.

“Well, I was right, wasn't I?”

Sasha cuts off the argument before they can really start going at it. “Again: any ideas? I’d like to be able to finish my article.”

“Spiderman?” Jon suggests drily.

Sasha shakes her head. “Far too on the nose.”

“Um…” Tim says. “What about… oh, I don't know. What types of spiders are there? Big nasty hairy ones? The ones that jump?”

Sasha snorts. “Bit too long.”

“Martin’s our regular spider expert. Why don't you ask him?” Tim says.

“Martin,” Sasha says, receiving no response. “Hey, Martin.”

“Hm? Oh, sorry.” Martin finally looks up from his computer. “What- what do you need?”

“I need a name.” Sasha taps her keyboard for emphasis.

Martin closes his computer halfway. “Well, um, there's…” He stops, resting his chin on his hands. “There's recluse spiders, and tarantulas… And wolf spiders… No, none of those are good names. Huntsman spiders, no… Orbweaver spiders, maybe?”

“The Orbweaver’s a bit of a mouthful,” Sasha says.

“Maybe- maybe just shorten it to the Weaver?” Martin suggests. “Then it’s like what spiders do, like weaving a web.”

Sasha snaps her fingers. “That’s it. Think it fits, Jon?”

Jon shrugs. “More than anything else, I suppose.”

The four of them sit in silence for a while, the only sound Sasha’s rapid typing as she finalizes her article. Martin continues his research, which Jon believes is on different Stranger agents. Tim, who’s been collecting interviews from witnesses from last night, leaves the office to take a call, returning several minutes later to scribble on a sheet of paper. Jon sorts through a few dozen files on the Boneturner, continuing his work on the profile article. Even if he'd rather not relive his experience so soon, it’s a good supplement for the article.

After a long time of quiet working, Sasha finally addresses the figurative elephant in the room. “Why did you go to the Boneturner’s place alone, Jon?”

Jon sighs, only barely glancing up from his work, not particularly wanting to answer the question. “I already told you. I didn't think he was there. I didn't think there was any risk.”

“It’s something to do with Gertrude, isn't it?” Martin says, looking up.

“No,” Jon lies, apparently unconvincingly, because Tim rolls his eyes.

“Right,” Tim says, “because you haven't been obsessively trying to find more of her research since we found those old notes.”

“She knew something we don't,” Jon insists. “The Boneturner talked about it; they all know something, how it all connects. She figured it out, and the Eye killed her for it.”

“Exactly why you should leave it alone, especially if you trying to figure it out means going to Jared goddamn Hopworth’s place and nearly getting your bones sucked out of your body,” Tim argues.

“You could have died, Jon,” Martin adds, sounding concerned. “You need to be more careful. If- if the superhuman- the Weaver, hadn't been there, you would’ve been killed.”

“You don't think I know that?” Jon snaps, perhaps too harshly. He puts the heels of his hands to his temples, trying to push out his headache. “Sorry. It's just… I want to be able to understand. None of the Entities have made themselves known in public for over fifteen years, and for the Eye to kill her… She knew something. She must have.”

“Well, we don't know that, do we?” Sasha says, with a kind of forced optimism. “None of us worked here when she did, and Michael never mentioned her doing anything weird.”

Jon scoffs. “And Michael Shelley is a credible source now, is he?”

“More credible than your vague suspicions on one page of notes,” Tim replies. “She was probably just going senile or something.”

“Then why would the Eye kill her?” Jon says, ignoring Sasha in the corner of his eye as she ducks under the table to retrieve a pen.

“Oh, I don't know, maybe if she did her job like you do and nearly got herself killed doing stupid shit every day, she brought it on herself,” Tim says.

“We’re journalists, Tim, and if there's a story, it's our job to look for it,” Jon argues, briefly breaking eye contact with Tim as he glances at the movement that turns out to be Sasha sitting back up.

“The only reason there was a story was because you nearly got killed!”

“The Boneturner knows something, he told me himself. If we-”

“Okay, stop it!” Martin not-quite-shouts, standing up from his chair. “We don't need to argue about this again. We just- we just need to focus on our work. If Gertrude dug into something and the Eye killed her, there's no reason to think it wouldn't kill us. Let’s just leave it alone.” Martin seems to realize exactly what he just said and reddens, sitting back down. “Sorry. I’m just not feeling- not feeling well right now.”

“No, it's- it’s alright, Martin.” Jon rubs his eyes under his glasses, taking a moment to regain his composure.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Tim says, though seems just a little bitter he didn't get the last word. He looks over at Jon. “Just maybe… I don't know, let us know if you’re going to do something like that.” He shoots a lopsided grin at Jon. “If you’re going to get yourself killed, at least let one of us get it on camera. I’m sure Elias would be thrilled.”

Jon wants to object, but he knows Tim will just keep the argument going and at this point, Jon would just like to get back to work. “Yes, I’m sure he would.”

Sasha clears her throat loud enough to draw all the other’s attention to her. “Now, if you’re all done shouting at each other, I think I just found something you might find interesting.”

She holds up a piece of paper, covered with looping cursive writing that Jon immediately recognizes. Gertrude. He stands from his chair and walks over to Sasha. She keeps hold of the paper, but as she reads it aloud, he reads over her shoulder, just to make sure it's real.

The note reads: “Michael has located several potential locations for the Flesh Hive. I now have reason to believe that the Flesh and Corruption may not oppose each other. Further research is required to test this assumption. An interview of the Flesh Hive may now be necessary.” Below it is a list of dozens of addresses, a few of them crossed out but most of them left untouched. The date at the top is 20th February, 2015. Less than a month before Gertrude’s death.

“Where did you find that?” Martin asks, also standing up to look over Sasha's shoulder.

“Under the table,” she answers. “There was a fake panel on the bottom that I must have knocked loose somehow, and this was taped inside.”

Tim pointedly stays sitting. “What’s she talking about when she says that the Flesh and Corruption aren't opposing forces? All of the Entities work together, I thought.”

“They do,” Jon says, taking the paper from Sasha to get a proper look. “But maybe…”

“That- that doesn't make sense,” Martin says. “The Flesh is meat and stuff, right? And the Corruption is disease and insects. They feed off each other.”

Sasha nods. “Yeah, like Centipede and the Butcher back in… 2009, I think it was? They were Corruption and Flesh and they worked together.”

“Yeah, so maybe she was just going senile,” Tim says again.

“Still, if we have these addresses,” Sasha takes the paper back from Jon, “we need to investigate them. Prentiss is dangerous, and if we can find a way to stop her, we need to do it.”

“We need to narrow down the potential locations,” Jon says. “There’s far too many to look into.”

Tim sighs. “And we’re obviously going to investigate, because we can't just avoid the crazy lady made of worms and oh, maybe call the police instead?”

“The police won't respond until we have something definitive,” Jon says.

“We can borrow some CO2 from the custodial staff,” Sasha adds. “If we just go round trying to find the Flesh Hive and don't actually engage with her, we’ll be fine.”

“I don't think this is a good idea,” Martin says quietly.

Tim grunts. “I don't either. But if these two are going to go get themselves killed, someone decent with a camera has to be around to film it.”

“Think we could convince Elias?” Sasha asks.

“No,” Jon says. “We can't tell him we've found something else of Gertrude’s; he’ll just confiscate it for research again. We’re much less likely to get arrested for trespassing if we go at night anyhow.”

“Or,” Martin says, “we could not go at all, and be completely unlikely to get arrested for trespassing.”

“If you don't want to go-” Jon starts.

“No, no, it's fine,” Martin says, a long sigh indicating otherwise. “I just think it's a bad idea. We know how dangerous the Flesh Hive is.”

There's a short and awkward silence. Jon looks down at his hands, at the small scars that sit there. Sasha absently trails a long line down the middle of her chest, where her largest and deepest scar is. Tim stares straight ahead, scratching his arm. Martin looks anywhere but at the other three.

What Jon says when he interrupts the quiet is, “This is our chance to help stop her.” What he doesn't say is that this is their chance to get more information. To learn more about what Gertrude knew.

“Go team,” Tim says in a monotone.

Sasha smiles in the way she does when she knows they're on the edge of something good. “Alright. Meet up back at the doors at 9:00 tonight. Let’s do this.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was this chapter supposed to be all dialogue? Nope. Do I have control over where this story goes? Not really.


	3. Chapter 3

Martin feels guilty for lying, though if lying is what's going to make sure his friends don't get killed by a horrible worm monster, it's worth it. He can deal with lying that he's home sick just this once. He just can't believe they all decided to actually try and find the Flesh Hive. Jon, he'd believe, but Tim and Sasha usually tend to be more reasonable. And it's going to be a lot more complicated now, with three people to protect instead of one. He's going to have to fight the Flesh Hive. Martin’s fought superhumans before, but they've all been low caliber: the Undertaker, the Wax Men, the Mold. Nothing like the Flesh Hive.

He doesn't notice his hands are shaking until he materializes a web line five feet away from where he needed it and nearly falls to his death. He manages to create another line between the two buildings, grabbing on and holding on for dear life. He knows he shouldn't travel so high up, but it's faster than walking and he doesn't have time to waste. He's visited eight locations and neither his colleagues nor the Flesh Hive were there. He knows that Jon and Tim and Sasha can take care of themselves, he _knows_ that, but they’re not equipped for the Flesh Hive. And if they manage to find her before Martin gets there… It was bad enough that Jon almost got himself killed by the Boneturner last night, and the only reason Martin got there was because he just happened to be wandering that part of town. Somehow he'd happened across Jon accidentally then, but Martin can't seem to find any sign of anyone.

He finally finds them at a small abandoned hotel off 10th Street. Jon, Tim, and Sasha all have a canister of CO2, along with a video camera for each. Not nearly enough to fend of the Flesh Hive if they get cornered. Martin balances on his most recent line instead of creating a new one to jump to, crouching down to try and assess the situation. He can't feel the Flesh Hive yet, but the walls of the hotel are probably blocking him from doing that in the first place. Still, he can't exactly stop following them.

There's plenty of windows to get into, but the problem will be finding everyone once he gets inside. Unless he can just approach them and go with them. But he can't do that. He'd gotten much too flustered in front of Jon last time, and he's not eager to repeat that. Besides, then maybe they'd wonder why the Weaver is there, and then he'd have to tell them, and then he'd have to tell them why he _hadn't_ told them… He's not going to be able to deal with that.

And then he has to.

Sasha manages to get the door open — she learned how to pick locks years ago for an investigation and has been eager to use her skill at every given opportunity — and looks up in Martin’s direction. Martin knows she can't see him, but he jerks back reflexively, overbalancing and falling off his web. He's not sure why it happens (probably because he's barely slept the last two weeks) but he is sure that he's just made a complete fool of himself. He reaches into the webs that lurk barely past the edges of reality and pulls one through, a hurried drop line attaching to the roof of the office building next to him. He catches hold and slides the rest of the way to the ground, managing to preserve a little dignity. What little he has. He feels his face flush under the mask.

“Um, hello,” he says as soon as he steadies himself from the landing. Not the best recovery.

“This is the Weaver, then?” Tim asks, training his camera on Martin.

“Yes,” Jon says, looking slightly confused as he addresses Martin: “Why are you here?”

Martin draws a blank, because he can't tell them he's been trying to find them and he can't say he's looking for the Flesh Hive, because then they might know it's him. “You’re breaking and entering,” he says, then realizes what that implies and immediately regrets it. “Not going- not going to try and arrest you or anything, I just was in the area and I saw you breaking in and… wondered why you were here?”

“Right,” Jon says, and Martin can't tell if he's convinced or not because that's just what Jon’s voice sounds like all the time.

“Well, that's good for us,” Sasha says. “I’m Sasha and that's Tim, by the way, _Scion City Times_. You up for fighting the Flesh Hive if we find her in here?”

“The Flesh Hive,” Martin repeats.

“You know, tall, wormy, filled with holes?” Tim flashes a grin.

“I know what the Flesh Hive is. It's just maybe not a good idea for you to be looking for her,” Martin says.

“We think she might have some information we need.” Jon ignores the look Tim gives him.

“Well, now that there's a professional here, maybe we should just leave,” Tim suggests. “We can just have him check out the- oh, there he goes.”

Jon opens the door the rest of the way and walks into the building. Martin hurries to the door and follows Tim and Sasha as they go in. The first thing Martin notices is how dark it is. Where there was light from street lamps and the moon outside, there's none in here, all the windows covered to discourage anyone from squatting. Jon, Tim, and Sasha all have the night vision on the cameras, but Martin doesn't have anything to see by except for the faint light still coming in through the open door until Tim shuts it. Good thing is, he doesn't need to see.

He can feel everything as long as he focuses enough. The webs he has might not be corporeal until he pulls them through, but he can feel them all the same, can feel the twitch at the edge of his consciousness where they touch things. He feels Jon, camera and CO2 canister raised, searching through the lobby. He feels Sasha, spinning in slow circles to get a full view of the lobby. He feels Tim checking his own CO2, making sure it will work if he needs it. He feels the cobwebby chairs in the corner, the hallways stretching off on either side, the broken glass on the windows, the receptionist’s counter, even the bell sitting on top of it and the closed staff room door behind it. He even feels the real spiders, lurking in corners and spinning their own webs.

It's overwhelming for a second, a bombardment of sensations on his mind. He manages to reign in what he's sensing until he's focusing only on the bigger things and things that move. He hopes he'll be able to feel the worms if they're here. He's not certain if they can get through his suit or not, but if they can… He doesn't want to think about it. He wishes he'd have asked Breekon and Hope when they'd first given him the suit, but it's too late for that now. He’ll just have to hope that the Flesh Hive isn't here.

“No sign of her yet,” Tim says. “What do you say we call it quits and stop looking for the worm monster?”

He might not sound like it, especially since all their cameras are rolling, but Tim is scared. Martin can feel him scratching his arm, where Martin knows the identical circular scars sit, evidence of when the Flesh Hive attacked the _Times_ office. They'd all escaped then, though they bore the scars, Jon and Tim from the worms and Sasha from the NotThem, which had attacked her as she'd tried to escape out of a window. And Martin had gotten out fine, except for a few minor scrapes and a little lightheadedness from the fire suppression system. He’s going to make it up to all of them now. He's not going to run away again. No matter how much he wants to.

Jon sighs, and it shakes just a bit, enough to make it clear he's just as scared as Tim. “We should check the hallways on this floor, at least.”

“Probably should.” Sasha starts down the hallway to the right, but stops short and groans in disgust as she steps on something that makes an audible squish. “Ah, hell. I think she was here.”

“A worm?” Martin says, forcing himself not to picture the thing in his mind.

“Looks like it.” Sasha crouches down to investigate. “Looks like it's been dead a while though. She must have left it behind and gone somewhere else.”

Tim makes another comment, but Martin isn't paying attention to it. Instead, he's focusing on Jon. Jon has moved behind the counter and is looking at the door, inspecting something on it that Martin can't feel or see. He tries to focus more and figure out what it is, but the sensations from everywhere are so overwhelming that he's sent reeling. Instead of trying to feel it for himself, he walks over to Jon.

“Is there something on the door?” he asks.

Jon shouts in surprise and spins, CO2 raised. Martin stumbles back and puts his hands up. “Not Prentiss! Not Prentiss!”

Jon sighs in either relief or annoyance (or maybe both), lowering his CO2. “Be more careful, will you?”

“Sorry.”

Jon pinches the bridge of his nose, knocking his glasses slightly askew. “It's… it's fine.”

“You okay over there?” Sasha calls, having wandered a ways down the hallway with Tim.

“I’m fine,” Jon answers, turning back to the door.

“Is there something on the door?” Martin asks again.

“Yes, there are… It looks like there are words scratched in the wood.” Jon leans closer, his camera almost touching the door. “‘They are singing,’ I think.”

“That's what she said about the worms, isn't it? That they sing?” Martin leans past Jon and runs a hand over the door, feeling the words carved deep into the wood.

Tim makes a disgusted noise down the hallway. “More dead worms,” he says as he hurriedly shuts a door he opened.

Martin starts to get an uneasy feeling. “I don't… I’m not sure this is a good idea. I think you should leave.”

“Good idea!” Tim says as he and Sasha return to the main lobby. “She's not here. Let's just call the police and let them know, and then get the hell out of here.”

Jon waves a hand and continues inspecting the door. “You can leave if you want to. I need… There has to be something here.”

“Um, you should probably go too,” Martin says. “If I find something I can-”

Jon opens the door. Martin knows what he does when he gets like this. It happened before, after Gertrude’s body had been discovered hidden in a storage closet, murdered by the Eye itself. It happened after the Flesh Hive’s attack, when he'd spent days on end searching for the NotThem while Sasha lay in the hospital in critical condition. It happened when they'd found the first of Gertrude’s notes, suggesting there was something bigger happening around them. When he gets like this, Jon has absolutely no regard for his own safety. He's almost gotten himself killed more times than Martin can count. And now Martin can help him, if only he’d stop throwing himself right into danger like this.

Martin can see what's on the other side of the door. Somehow. There's no source of light, but he can see. It’s a hallway beyond it, a hallway that stretches seemingly forever, filled with mirrors that warp and reflect. A pit of dread opens in Martin’s stomach. Distortion.

Jon sucks in a breath. “This…”

“We need to leave. Now.” Tim’s hand tightens on the camera and he starts walking back to the front door.

“No sign of Michael or Helen,” Sasha says, unable to keep the curiosity from her voice. “I wonder what it's here for?”

“Doesn't matter, let’s go. Come on, Jon.”

Jon peers down the hallway and shudders. “Yes, we should… we have to…” He trails off, aiming the camera down the hallway.

Martin sees her at the same time Jon does. The Flesh Hive, barreling down the hallway toward them, worms streaming from her pitted, hole-filled skin. Martin catches Jon’s arm and pulls him back, slamming the door shut. He releases Jon, who shouts at the other two to run and goes for the entrance. Martin takes a second to draw some webs, pulling them through and stretching them across the door. It won't hold for long, but he has to go _now_.

Tim is the first to reach the door.

He opens the wrong one.

A distorted laugh rings out from the warped hallway behind it.

“Goddammit!” Tim slams the door shut and Martin immediately pulls webs to seal it shut.

“The windows!” Jon shouts.

Sasha is the closest to the window by the door. She swings her CO2 canister at the board that covers it. The board splinters and breaks, but doesn't come off the nails. She tries to swing again, but stops halfway through and falls backward with a scream. Worms begin to pour out of cracks in the wall near the window. Sasha sprays the CO2, killing some of them, but Martin is overwhelmed with the feeling of the squirming things as they start coming from… everywhere. They're everywhere.

Jon pulls Sasha upright as Tim starts spraying his CO2 canister around the room. It doesn't stop the worms. Nothing can stop the worms. Martin can feel the webs holding the first door shut begin to strain as the Flesh Hive tries to break it open. He desperately wants to tell everything to wait, to give him a moment to think, but he can't. He feels Sasha, Tim, and Jon all looking at him. He's the hero. He should be doing something. He can't do anything.

“Any ideas, Weaver?” Hysteria creeps into Jon’s voice as he sprays the last of the CO2.

Martin wants to curl up on the floor and wait until everything goes away. But it isn't Martin that's here right now. It's the Weaver. Martin may cower, he might run, but the Weaver doesn't. The Weaver has a plan to outsmart the bad guy and save the people around him. The Weaver is in control. It was the Weaver that stopped the Boneturner, and it's going to be the Weaver who stops the Flesh Hive.

Martin takes a deep breath. “Okay okay okay,” he mutters, bringing himself into control.

They can't reach the doors. Martin’s not sure where the real door is, and at this point it's probably covered in worms anyway. The Distortion’s doors would be a bad idea. Windows are out. Sasha finishes off her canister of CO2. She backs into Tim, who backs into Jon, who backs into Martin, and they're all standing in a circle in the middle of the room, being hemmed in by the worms. The Flesh Hive bursts through the door. There's nowhere left to go. Except there is.

Martin’s gotten a lot stronger since he got his powers, and this hotel has gotten a lot weaker since it was abandoned, especially with worms crawling through it. Still, it takes less force than he would have thought to smash through the ceiling. He crouches and jumps, flipping over in midair faster than he thought he could move. At the same time, he materializes a web stretching from the floor up, grabbing onto it and pushing upward to give himself even more momentum. He collides with the ceiling feet first, snapping through the boards and the support beams and straight up into the next floor.

His landing is messy and sends him tumbling across what floor there is left and colliding with a bed, but he's not focusing on himself. He can still feel the lobby beneath him, can feel the Flesh Hive and the worms and his friends. He focuses on his friends, feels the webs that wrap around them, and pulls. It's not perfect — Sasha’s shoulder hits part of the ceiling, Tim goes flying about two feet further up than necessary, Jon crashes into the desk chair — but it's enough. Enough to get them away from the worms and away from the Flesh Hive, at least for the moment.

“Sorry,” Martin says reflexively as soon as he has enough breath back to talk.

“No, it's-” Jon wheezes a small laugh. “That was… that was good.”

“Speak for yourself.” Sasha rubs her shoulder.

Tim hauls himself to his feet and inspects the shattered remains of his camera before dropping it to the ground. “You couldn't have done that _before_ we almost got eaten?”

“I didn't- I wasn't exactly planning on smashing through the ceiling when we came in here. I didn't- didn't actually know I could do that, to be honest.”

They sit there for just a moment, nursing their various minor injuries and checking themselves for worms. Sasha pulls out her phone and dials the police, giving them the address and a rundown of the situation in quick and practiced manner. It's almost peaceful, a second of respite and relative safety.

Then the Flesh Hive bellows as the worms begin to squirm their way up to the next floor.

It's not over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'd think with how worried about Martin I am in the newest season that I wouldn't torment him with Prentiss. At least it's not the Lonely?


	4. Chapter 4

As the Flesh Hive screams her rage, her four targets take the only option not doomed to fail: run. They can't take the window, since one of them breaking their legs in the fall would leave them even more vulnerable, so the only way out is back through the hotel. Martin vaults over the bed and pulls open the door. Sasha and Jon drag Tim along behind them, Tim tripping over everything in his path. Martin may technically be blind right now, but with his camera broken, Tim has no way to sense anything. Stretching his extra sense from the webs all the way down the hallway outside the room is almost too much, but Martin has to keep going. He can hear the worms beneath them trying to burrow up through the floor.

“Where are we going?” Sasha stomps a worm as it gnaws through the carpet.

Martin doesn't know. They can't go down, since that’s where the Flesh Hive, and they can't go up, because there's no way out that way. Martin stops and feels the other three nearly run into him. Jon and Sasha continue killing worms, which are rapidly multiplying. There's no way for them to all get out, and they're out of CO2, so they can't fight off the Flesh Hive. Unless…

Martin frantically feels through the hallway, trying to find the lift. If there's anything in this hotel that would be wormproof, the lift would be it. He finally finds it, on their right side past two more doors. He runs for it, making sure to keep track of his three friends and any worms that might be after them. As he stops in front of the lift, he has a moment of confusion when the button to open it doesn't work.

“The power’s out,” Jon hisses, starting to turn back around. “We have to-”

Martin slips his fingers into the doors. “One second,” he says, and tries to pull the doors open.

It's harder than he expected. He’s stronger with his powers, but the doors are heavy and rusted together a bit. Even so, he manages to pull them open far enough for a person to squeeze through the crack. Thankfully, the lift is actually there, not on another floor.

“Go go go,” Martin grunts as he struggles to keep the doors open.

Sasha, Tim, and Jon all duck into the lift. As soon as they're inside, Martin lets the doors slam closed, cutting off their various shouts of surprise and objection. They should be fine in there, at least until the police arrive. Now the only person left out is Martin. He’s alone, and he's going to have to fight the Flesh Hive. He's not going to hide from her again. He's not going to run from her again. He's going to keep his friends safe, and to do that he's going to have to fight her. And he's going to win, or die trying.

A sliver of fear stabs itself into him, trying to stop him. It almost does, just for a moment. But it doesn't. Martin might not be the bravest, but he follows through on what he needs to do. And what he needs to do is fight of the Flesh Hive. However that will work.

Enough motivation. Time to get to work.

Martin walks back toward the hole in the floor, hoping to go back down that way rather than try to find the stairs. He can feel the worms as they continue to wriggle up through the floor, but none of them are jumping for him yet. Before he gets to the hole, he works on molding the webs around him, twisting them into shape before he prepares to bring them through. He drops down into the lobby. He screams and barely manages to twist out of the way as he lands almost directly on top of the Flesh Hive. She snarls, worms wriggling out of the skin of her face and out of her bared teeth. Feeling the mass of roiling worms beneath him, Martin stretches a line across the lobby and springs up to stand on it, getting himself away from the worms while he concentrates on the larger web he's weaving. Concentration that is broken as the Flesh Hive tries to grab for him.

He dances out of the way, trying not to fall as the Flesh Hive pulls on his web. He jumps to a new line, wasting valuable time. Every second makes him more vulnerable. He stretches a new line near the floor, one that the Flesh Hive doesn't notice until she trips over it, buying him enough time. He pulls his creation through to this world, spreading a tightly woven web across the entire floor. It actually works. He's so overwhelmed by the sensation of thousands of worms trying to free themselves from his webs that he almost doesn't notice as they begin to fall from the ceiling.

Martin screams and dives, landing on the carpet of thrashing worms. He covers as much of himself as he can with his cloak, futilely hoping the extra layer of protection will be enough from the worms he's on top of and the ones raining down from above him. He curls into a ball, wanting to breathe but not daring to, shutting his eyes against the dark and hoping the worms just stop. He doesn't want to die like this. He feels the worms all over him, both through his normal senses and his webs, but he doesn't feel their bite. He doesn't feel them going into him at all. After a second, he notices that they're trying to bite into him, but they can't. They must not be able to get into his suit.

Relief fills him.

Relief that vanishes as a rotting, pitted hand closes around his neck and hauls him upright, holding him a few inches off the ground.

Martin can't see it, thankfully, but he feels himself barely an inch from the Flesh Hive’s dessicated face. He screams, a sound cut off as soon as it starts by her hand closing tighter around his throat. He tries to kick himself backward, but she's far too strong, much stronger than he is. Her lips curl back in either a growl or a grin, he can't tell. He chokes and thrashes, but nothing he does seems to work. The Flesh Hive can't feel pain, he remembers. She's filled with too many worms for that.

“They want you,” she croons, voice low and raspy and slithering.

The worms might not be able to get through his suit, but Martin's skin is underneath, and they can get through that. He tries to pull away as she slides her other hand down the side of his face, catching the edge of his mask. Martin can't breathe, he can't think, he can't do anything. He's still trying to get himself free, but he's weakening from the crushing panic and the crushing grip on his throat.

Maybe he'll suffocate before the worms burrow in.

He feels one of the Flesh Hive’s jagged fingernails scratch against his cheek as she slowly, deliberately begins to pull off his mask.

No. He can't die like this. He can't.

With what remains of his consciousness, he feels everything, the worms, the Flesh Hive, the hotel. The hole in the ceiling above them. The bed by its edge. With the last of his strength, he attaches a web to it and pulls it down as hard as he can.

It's not much, but it's enough.

The bed falls. The Flesh Hive notices it a second before it lands on top of her, a strangled cry forcing itself from her worm-filled throat. She releases Martin, who falls to his knees on top of the web-covered floor, clutching his throat and wheezing. For a second, he thinks she might have actually crushed his windpipe, because he still can't breathe. He collapses fully to the floor, worms wriggling and trying to burrow into him. He coughs and forces air through to his lungs, letting out a strangled groan at the pain. He lays there, gasping, for nearly a whole minute before he manages to get to his feet. The Flesh Hive struggles, but the bed seems to have crushed her enough that she doesn't have the strength to get up.

“Fuck… you,” Martin says, the triumph of the moment enough to overcome the pain.

He's beaten her. He didn't run, he didn't hide, he didn't die. He defeated the Flesh Hive, and he protected his friends. He did it. He _did it_.

And then the door slams open and light floods the lobby as four officers armed with pistols and torches barge in. Martin weakly raises his hands, hoping they don't shoot him.

“Did she get you?” one of them demands, face and body covered by a Hazmat suit.

“No,” Martin answers, gesturing to the writhing, broken Flesh Hive under the bed.

After a moment, the officer nods. Maybe all the superhumans’ suits are wormproof. Martin really should have asked Breekon and Hope more questions.

“There civilians here?” a different officer snaps.

“Yeah, um,” Martin coughs, throat too ragged to say too many words, “they're in the lift. They're fine. None of the worms got to them.”

The police ignore Martin and get to work. The police have never had much regard for the superheroes. Once the police are called, it's their job, and they don't want anyone getting in their way. Martin waits until he's completely sure that no one is going to shoot him, then heads out the still open door. There's two more officers outside, along with two patrol cars and an ambulance. The officers eye him, but don't try to do anything. They're here for the Flesh Hive, and as long as he doesn't stop them from getting her, they don't care about him. Martin just keeps out of their way and makes a web stretching to the top of the nearest building. He doesn't bother trying to jump from line to line this time, just walks straight up on his web until he gets to the roof.

He lays on the roof for a while. He takes off his mask and feels his face for holes, finding nothing. There's no itching either. He made it out of a fight with the Flesh Hive with nothing but a bruised throat. Impressive, if more than a little painful at the moment.

He hears activity back down on the street. He looks down, seeing the four officers carrying a restrained Flesh Hive to the ambulance. The other two officers have brought a ladder over to a window and are helping Jon, Tim, and Sasha get down. They're going to be at the police station for a while answering questions, but otherwise, they should be fine. Martin kind of wants to go talk to them, but he won't be able to with the police there. That, and he's not fully confident in his ability to stand again.

He lays there, listening to the voices below and the distant hum of the city itself. He gets to his feet, not particularly wanting to get up but eager to get back to his flat so he can sleep. He just hopes he doesn't run into anything else along the way.

It takes about half an hour to get across the city by the rooftops, though he could probably go faster if he really wanted to. It's calm and quiet, relatively, the only break in the peace the sirens as the police respond to calls across the city. There's none of the more obvious activity of supervillains like Fireball or the Ringleader, and Martin’s not sure if he'd be able to do anything to help anyway. The adrenaline of his fight against the Flesh Hive has worn off, and the combination of his battered body and his lack of sleep for the last week is starting to get to him.

He's so tired he almost doesn't notice the worms in his flat. He does though, and immediately pulls through a web so he can get off the floor. It doesn't matter though. The things are dead. They've been too far away from the Flesh Hive for too long to be alive. Still, it means she was here. It means he was a target. He supposes that being attacked by the Flesh Hive is a better excuse for not going tonight than just being sick. He should probably call Jon, or maybe Elias, or maybe Tim or Sasha.

He can worry about that in the morning.

For now, he just has to get rid of the damn worms. They might not be alive, but they're probably still some sort of biohazard. He sighs, gets a trash bag, and gets to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: this chapter ties Martin with Melanie for the character with the most uses of "fuck" in my fics. It's only two, but still.


	5. Chapter 5

**Police Report Regarding the Flesh Hive Incident on 19/09/18**

Case Number: 1029471439  
Date: September 19, 2018  
Reporting Officers: CST Davids, CST Li, CST Stevens, Sgt. Mendez, Sgt. Yang, INSP Patton  
Prepared by: Sgt. Hart

Incident Type: Superhuman  
Address of Occurence: 182 10th Street, Scion City  
Witnesses: Sasha James, Jonathan Sims, Timothy Stoker, “The Weaver”

On September 19, 2018, at approximately 23:45, police responded to a call by Sasha James from the former Westside Hotel on 10th Street. The call reported an alleged attack by Jane Prentiss, AKA the Flesh Hive. Upon arrival, officers found a superhuman later identified as the Weaver by witnesses. The witnesses themselves had been sealed in the hotel’s lift, apparently to protect them from the worms.

The Weaver was not questioned further, and instead the officers secured Prentiss, who had been crushed underneath a bed from the hotel’s second floor.

According to the witnesses, Prentiss emerged from a door allegedly part of the Distortion’s network. The witnesses had apparently been investigating the hotel after receiving an anonymous tip about possible locations of the Flesh Hive. They neglected to inform the police and were trespassing on private property, though the owner has instructed the SCPD not to press charges. The witnesses claim that Prentiss attempted to attack them with her parasitic worms, but the Weaver was able to assist them to the lift, where they remained until extracted by officers and the ambulance personnel that arrived on the scene.

Prentiss has been apprehended and taken into custody. She is currently pending charges for her series of attacks after her prison break in 2016 (see case file 182849639), and is already charged with multiple counts of murder and assault.

\---

“You wanted- you wanted to see me?” Martin awkwardly pulls at the scarf he has around his neck, sitting at the chair on the other side of Jon’s desk.

“Yes.” Jon leans back from his desk, looking up at Martin. “I wanted to get your statement on what happened last night. And I wanted- I wanted to see if you're… alright.” He's already checked with Tim and Sasha, who have seemed fine if a bit shaken, but Martin was alone with the Flesh Hive in his flat for the second time in the past few years.

Martin laughs. “If I'm- Jon, you nearly died.”

Jon sighs. “So did you, Martin. The Flesh Hive was in your flat.”

“I’m fine, Jon. All I had to do was seal myself in the bathroom. Sorry about the emails, that was-”

“Yes, I know, it was Prentiss.” Jon looks back down at his desk, at all the files about the Flesh Hive he has scattered across it. “I don't… I just don't understand why she attacked you in your flat.”

Martin shrugs. “I don't- I'm not sure. You said there were Distortion doors in the hotel? Maybe one of them led her to my flat?”

Jon picks up a pen and finds a relatively unmarked piece of paper. “Right, um, would you mind-”

“Oh! Right. Well, I was at home, and I was getting ready to leave and come back here, and then I just see… worms coming in under the door. I figure that I don't have enough time to kill them all, and the Flesh Hive is probably on the other side, so I lock myself in the bathroom and stuff towels under the door to wait it out like last time. She must have picked up my phone, because when I finally came out of the bathroom a while later, she’d already sent the email saying I was sick. I guess she just thought she’d try the same thing as last time, considering it worked for- for over a week.”

The explanation is rushed and Jon wants to ask for more detail. But before he can, Martin starts talking again.

“I’m fine, Jon, really. And I don't think it would make that good of a story.” He shifts in his seat. “I wanted to ask if you're okay.”

Jon snorts. “I’m assuming you didn't subject Tim and Sasha to this conversation?”

Martin looks slightly offended and his tone is a bit defensive as he says, “Yeah, actually, and they talked to me instead of trying to wave me off.” He stops, blinks, and hides his face in his scarf. “Sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me.”

Jon does. As Sasha takes care to remind him every once in a while, he's never been the best at knowing how the people around him are feeling, but he'd have to be blind to not notice how… bad Martin looks. He looks like he hasn't slept, and Jon might have waved it off as a result of the Flesh Hive, but he's looked like this for two weeks. Ever since they found Gertrude’s notes, Jon realizes. Ever since Jon started madly trying to figure out what's going on.

“No, no, it's fine.” Jon pushes his glasses up. “And I'm… fine.”

Martin gives him a look. “Um, no offense or- or anything, but-”

“Yes, I know, I look like hell.” He hasn't been getting much sleep either, and his tireless research has been exhausting, to say the least. “I don't… I don't know what to do,” he admits.

Martin pauses, waiting for Jon to finish his thought, then asks, “About?”

“I almost… Sasha and Tim nearly died last night. I nearly died last night. If the Weaver hadn't showed up…” He chooses not to finish the thought.

“Yeah.”

“I don't know why… I don't understand why I need to know. Why I need to find out what Gertrude knew. And all it's done is almost get me killed, or- or get the three of you killed, and…” He sighs. “I don't think I can stop investigating this, but… we need- _I_ need to be more careful.”

Martin nods. “Yeah. I think- I think we might need to stop poking the bear, so to- so to speak.”

He's not wrong, though everything inside of Jon is pushing him to fight it. He _needs_ to know, needs to find out, needs to learn. But he shoves that need down as much as he can. He's almost died two times in as many days. And it's not like things like this haven't happened before. The only reason the Flesh Hive had attacked the _Times_ office in the first place was because Martin had antagonized her, trying to get more information. And the only reason Sasha had been hurt during the attack at all was because Jon had been prodding too far into his research into the NotThem, giving them a reason to come after the staff of the paper. Not to mention the dozens of other close calls the four of them have had over the past few years — Flesh Hive, Ringleader, Distortion, Sky Blue, Smiler. If Jon wants to stop it from happening again, or worse, someone dying, he’ll need to drop his investigation.

It's not like he doesn't have enough work to do already.

“Can I- could I ask you a favor, Martin?” Jon asks.

“Of course,” is Martin’s instant and unhesitant reply.

“If I start… If I keep trying to dig into Gertrude, if I keep putting all of us in danger, could you… stop me? I don't think… I don't think I can do it on my own.” He hates it, hates admitting it, hates showing his weaknesses, hates having to in the first place, hates that he's stopping himself from reaching what he needs to know.

Martin smiles, genuine if a bit weary. “I think- I think I can do that. You just have to promise to be more careful.”

No promises, Jon wants to say. But he doesn't. He doesn't want to die, and he especially doesn't want to die to something as horrible as the Boneturner or the Flesh Hive. He does try to be careful, in an extremely… relative sense of the word. Probably not as careful as Martin would like him to be, because even if he's not investigating Gertrude, danger is just another part of the job at the _Times_. Still, Martin deserves a little peace of mind, especially if it will let him sleep easier. He seems like he needs it.

“Fine.” Jon tries to give Martin a reassuring smile, though he thinks it looks more like a grimace.

Martin nods. “That's- that's good. I’m going to get back to work, if that's- if that's okay with you.”

Jon bends back over his papers. “Of course.” He clears his throat. “There's- there's a lot of paperwork that's going to come out of the… Flesh Hive situation.”

Martin stands and goes to the door, but before he leaves, he turns back to Jon. “Just let me know if you need anything.”

Jon smiles back up at him, and he thinks it looks less pained this time. “I will, Martin.”

Martin leaves the office and leaves Jon to his work. The papers and reports and statements are comforting, easy to work with as he connects the Flesh Hive’s activities together. Not that it matters much now. She's been arrested and taken to the Tunnels, Scion City’s high security superhuman facility. Clearance to get in for an interview might take months. Even if the Flesh Hive did know something about Gertrude, Jon’s not going to be able to find it out.

No. He's focusing on something else.

Most notably, the Weaver. He's shown up twice, both times to save Jon. And there's been no other reports of him around the city, though with the amount of superhuman activity that happens every day, that doesn't necessarily mean anything. He seems to be new, not having made a name for himself yet, but he's skilled enough to take down the Boneturner and the Flesh Hive. Every other hero — Blaze (before she sided with the Desolation, anyway), Puppeteer, Lightning — they all made names for themselves quickly, fully exposing themselves to the public eye. The Weaver hasn't. Jon wishes he could have an actual conversation with him. They're going to need to publish a piece about him if he keeps showing up in the public eye, but they can't do that if they don't have more solid material.

Any further thought on the Weaver is interrupted by the office door opening. Sasha is there, leaning halfway in the door.

“Basira and Daisy are here. You want to handle a statement?”

Jon stands. “Yes. Were they- They weren't there last night. Did something else happen?”

Sasha nods. “Best if you hear it from them. You want Basira or Daisy?”

It doesn't take any time for Jon to decide, because he still gets the distinct feeling that Daisy wants to snap his neck more than she wants to give him information. “Basira.”

Sasha leaves the door open as she goes back out into the main room. Jon takes a moment to collect both his laptop and tape recorder, along with a pen and paper. Whatever Basira and Daisy are here for, it must be something important.

The central area of the _Times_ reporting floor is far too large for how many people work there. The whole building is too large for how many people work there; five stories for maybe twenty people, only four of them actually working as reporters. Elias has a whole floor for himself, but the journalists themselves have a floor to house all their individual offices, along with a central lobby with a conference table and several separate smaller tables. The whole area is lit by a massive window stretching around the entirety of the outer walls, surrounding them on all four sides. Tim is sitting at the conference table, trying to pry open the destroyed remnants of his camera, which the police had retrieved for him last night. Martin must be in his office, since he's nowhere to be seen. Sasha sits down at one of the side tables with Daisy while Basira goes to a different one, looking over at Jon expectantly.

“Hey, Jon,” she says, the movement of her mouth stretching the plaster that covers the right side of her face.

Jon gives her a look over as he puts all his things on the table, noticing the sling her right arm is in and her slightly pained expression. “Are you- are you alright? What happened?”

She winces and shifts in her chair. “Hellhound.”

Jon turns on the recorder and his laptop. “The Hellhound is alive?”

“I thought it was dead too. Apparently not.”

“And it… What was it doing?”

“You want the whole statement?” Basira glances over at Daisy, then back to Jon.

“If you would.”

She sighs. “Right, so, last night, maybe an hour or so before you called about the Flesh Hive, we got a tip about a Dark agent causing trouble down in Maple Acres. The precinct sent me and Daisy, since we have experience with the Dark.”

She lets that hang in the air for a second, then continues. “It was… bad. The report we got said that an entire church had gone, well, dark. I don't know how many people were there at the time, and I don't know if they're going to be able to identify the bodies. All I know is that when we got there, they were all dead, and the Hellhound had killed them.”

“Are you sure it was the Hellhound?” Jon knows that Basira wouldn't lie about something like this, but the Hellhound was killed by Shroud years ago. It couldn't have been the Hellhound.

“Yeah. Um, it was… the bodies were shredded. And I don't think any other thing is going to be able to replicate the feeling that thing gives. The torches blowing as soon as we stepped in the place, there being something behind you at all times, the _sound_ it makes when it breathes. It was the Hellhound. Had to be.”

“I… yes, I believe you.” He doesn't know how it's possible, but she clearly isn't lying.

“Anyway, we went in and found the bodies, and then the torches went out. And then… it’s a bit blurry. I remember being thrown across the room, hitting one of the broken pews, and I remember Daisy shooting at something. I lit the emergency flare we had, which seemed to be enough to slow it down. I think Daisy got it once, but it just didn't stop. I tried to catch it in the light. Whenever I thought I could see it, it just melted away.

“Going in, we thought it was just one of the Bats, but I still took a strobe with us, just in case. When the flare went out, all there was to see by was Daisy’s muzzle flashes. I didn't know where the thing was, since it always feels like it's behind you, but I took my best guess and threw the strobe. It seemed to work, so I went for the door, thinking we could get outside and call for backup first. And then the roof came off.”

“The… roof?” Jon asks. It might be strong, but even the Hellhound didn't have enough strength to do that.

“Lightning. The superhuman, not the real thing. He must have been listening in on the police scanner or something, because he seemed to know exactly what he was going for. Everything was so bright, but I saw the dark shape of the Hellhound moving, slinking along the edges of the church. Then it disappeared under a cloud of electricity. It was on the other side of the church and I could still feel the static and smell the burning ozone.

“It looked like Lightning managed to get ahold of the Hellhound somehow, because when he flew back up again, he wasn't as bright as before. There was just this patch of darkness that covered him, but before I could see anything else, he was gone. I don't know what happened after that. We called the bodies in, but neither Lightning or the Hellhound came back. No one’s seen any sign of either of them since last night.”

“And that was… was that all?”

Basira shakes her head. “No. When Lightning touched down in the church, he said something. He said, ‘You’re not allowed to be here.’”

“A witty one-liner, maybe?” Of course, it's never as simple as that, but Jon can dream.

“I don't think it was. Maybe it was because the Hellhound is supposed to be dead. I don't know, though. I just have the feeling that it means something bigger. And the whole thing felt… off.”

“How so?”

Basira frowns, looking down at the table. “I don't know how to describe it, really. It felt staged, almost. Like we were all actors playing a part.” She gestures to her arm in the sling. “Actors aren't supposed to get hurt though, so maybe it's nothing.”

“Still, I think we should look into it. Thank you for coming and telling us; I know how… inconvenient it is.”

“No, no, it's fine. It's nice, actually, compared to fighting superhumans all the time.”

Jon turns off the recorders. “Well, with how the week is going, I’m not sure our track record is much better.”

She smiles. “Yeah, that's true. Don't know if I'd prefer Flesh and Corruption over Dark and Slaughter.” She glances over at Daisy, who’s looking slightly more cross than usual as she walks away from Sasha and over to the lift. “I should probably get going.”

“Right, yes, of course.” Jon collects all of his things as Basira gets up, careful with her injured arm. “I don't suppose you have any of those files I asked for last time.”

She looks over her shoulder as she goes to follow Daisy. “Just because you’re a journalist doesn't mean you get access to everything, Jon. We’ve got to have some things that stay confidential.”

With that, she and Daisy enter the lift and start on their way out. Jon sighs and looks over his notes. He wasn't intending on looking into the Hellhound any time soon, because the damned thing has been dead for years, but apparently he's going to have to postpone his other research for now.

It doesn't take too long for Jon and Sasha to compare notes. Daisy’s story was very similar to Basira’s. She'd even mentioned the fact that the whole thing felt staged. Jon doesn't know exactly what that means, but he intends to find out. Later, though. For now, he has to go through the files and find anything pertaining to the Hellhound. Since most of that is from Gertrude was still alive, he fully expects it to take the rest of the day. Even after working here for years, he still doesn't understand her organization system.

“Could you get Martin to do the transcriptions?” Sasha asks as soon as they're done comparing notes. “Tim and I still need to go through the videos.”

Tim is still sitting at his table, finally close to prying the memory card out of the camera. “I’ll go give them to him,” Jon says.

Sasha gives him a thumbs-up and goes to sit by Tim. Jon goes over to Martin’s office and opens the door.

“Martin, I have-”

He stops, falling silent. Martin is asleep on his desk. He's slumped over his desk, pen still clutched in one hand, as if he fell asleep in the middle of his work. He probably did. His other hand is tangled in one end of his scarf, wrapping it around his fingers. His mouth is slightly open, his breathing long and steady. He looks more peaceful than he has in weeks.

Jon almost wants to wake him up. But he doesn't. Martin seems like he needs the rest. Jon closes the door as quietly as he can. He needs the extra work anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, the Hellhound is the Dark creature that was after the Mantauk family. I'm preeeetty sure that everything in this fic is at least tangentially mentioned in the show, but at this point the worldbuilding has taken on a life of its own and I have lost control.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone leaving comments! They're all super nice and lovely to see, and it means a lot to see people enjoying my work!

It's almost a week after Daisy and Basira came in when the reporters at the _Times_ finally get something big to report on. Most of the follow-up on the Hellhound and Lightning was superficial at best. The Hellhound has vanished again, though it's impossible to tell if that's because it's dead (again) or because it's in hiding. Lightning has appeared a few more times throughout the city, though he's barely anything to report on. He's been doing hero work around the city for years now and has done absolutely nothing out of the ordinary. No collusion with the Vast despite his powers, no reveal of his identity, not providing any interviews or information outside of the fights he wins. He's secretive to the point that all investigations into him have led nowhere.

Martin, of course, has his work as the Weaver, but there hasn't been as much activity as usual. And Jon seems to have kept his promise to keep himself out of danger, at least for now.

It's not like Martin necessarily _enjoys_ getting into fights with superhumans all the time, but he does find that he's started to miss it, just a little bit.

So when Sasha comes in crowing about the fact that Sky Blue’s power plant is no longer classified as a crime scene, it's a welcome distraction.

“And you're sure nothing’s going to be there to kill us this time?” Tim asks as the four of them walk down the street toward the imposing shape of the Zeus Energy building.

“Police have been there ever since they got Sky Blue. And with Sky Blue gone, there are no more major Vast agents in the city,” Sasha says, adjusting some of the settings on her camera.

“And the police confirmed the body to be Simon Fairchild,” Jon says. “I don't think we should have to deal with him coming back to life.”

“I think we should- we should be safe.” Martin certainly hopes so. He isn't the Weaver right now, and he's banking on the fact that there _won't_ be danger. It wasn't like he could call in sick when all four of them were already at the office, so he just has to hope.

Zeus Energy is one of the largest power plants in the city. It sits at the very edge of town, its towers rising almost as high as some of the skyscrapers in the city itself. It's made of a uniform gray concrete, clean and tidy. No one is entirely sure exactly what type of energy it generates, but it's reliably kept power in the city since it was constructed decades before. At least, until it was revealed who actually ran the place.

“Jon, you know the most about Sky Blue. Is there- is there anything we should know going in?” Martin knows enough about Simon Fairchild, but he wants to hear Jon talk about him anyway. He likes listening to Jon when he talks about things he's interested in, as long as it doesn't involve planning to throw himself into danger again.

“Ah, well…” He takes a second to order his thoughts. “He appeared about twenty years ago, the first Vast superhuman that wasn't the Vast itself. He's been practically the only one, but he's made up for it in the sheer amount of destruction he's caused. I think the latest numbers were… over three billion in damages and four hundred people killed. When his identity was revealed as Simon Fairchild, owner of Zeus Energy, the police raided the place along with Puppeteer and some of the Hunters. And considering the state his body was in when they were finished, it’s safe to say he won't be coming back.”

“Yeah, been a while, hasn't it?” Sasha says. “Five months?”

Jon shrugs. “Something like that.”

Tim is the first to get to the large metal doors, pausing before he pulls one open. “Ready?”

“As we’ll ever be,” Martin answers.

Tim opens the door. Nothing rushes out of them, no ball of electricity or flying whirlwind. Nothing pulls the air from their lungs or fills them with water. It's just a dusty, empty power plant. The lights even work when Sasha flips the switch, revealing the interior of the power plant. It's huge, several hundred feet from end to end.

“So… what exactly are we looking for here?” she asks, getting various shots of the inside of the plant itself, the massive pipes and boilers that rise from the concrete floor, the thin metal walkway that stretches above them.

Jon’s answer isn't particularly helpful. “Anything we can use.”

“Don't think there's much in here the police missed.” Tim scuffs a scorch mark on the concrete.

“We don't need much.”

“We might want to check the walkways,” Martin suggests. “It would be a better angle for the cameras, anyway.”

Jon leads the way over to the stairs. “I expected there to be more here,” he says to no one in particular.

“Oh, hold on.” Sasha stops, looking past one of the pieces of piping. “Looks like there's an office back there. Tim, you want to come check it out?”

“Yeah, sure,” Tim says, and follows her as she walks across the plant.

Martin looks around the plant as he and Jon continue toward the stairs. “What kind of power plant is this?”

“I’m… not really sure. It doesn't look like-”

Jon cuts himself off with a shout of surprise and stumbles back into Martin as a door opens on the wall nearby. A door that wasn't there before. Martin steadies Jon and steps backward, wanting to run but not knowing if he should. The Distortion — Michael — steps out of the door, hands large and sharp and wrong, tilted grin across his face.

“Michael,” Jon says, his voice a low and angry growl. “Why the _hell_ are you here?”

“What, I can't stop by to see an old friend, Jonathan?” Michael laughs, the sound echoing and bouncing.

“Not when you tried to kill us.” Jon takes a step forward, but Martin puts a hand on his shoulder.

“Jon, don't, he’s-”

“Oh, I didn't try to _kill_ you,” Michael croons. “If I had, you’d be dead. And you don't know it was me, maybe it was Helen.” His expression makes it clear that it most definitely was not Helen.

“Does it matter?” Jon asks.

Michael’s smile widens. “No, I suppose it really doesn't.” He tilts his head a bit to the side, his smile inverting. “You really aren't making me feel welcome. Maybe I should just go.”

“Wait,” Martin says. “Just tell us why you're here.”

“Please?” Michael prompts.

“Please,” Jon repeats drily, folding his arms.

“Everyone knows you can't quit your job in Scion City. I may be Distortion now, but I’ll always belong to the paper. Call this… a favor, from one journalist to the other.” He looks to Martin, then to Jon. “Let’s just say… the man the police killed here was Sky Blue, but he wasn't the only one. Use your senses.”

Jon’s brow furrows. “He- what? Michael- goddammit.”

Michael gives them a wave and goes back through his door. It vanishes as soon as it's closed. Jon sighs in frustration.

“What was he talking about?” he says. “That doesn't make any sense. ‘Use your senses?’ ‘He wasn't the only one?’ Damned Distortion always speaks in riddles.”

Martin may not know what any other part of that meant, but he does know what Michael meant by using his senses. He must know who Martin is. What Martin is. Jon doesn't seem like he noticed. Martin probably doesn't have to worry about the Distortion exposing him directly. Michael and Helen’s intentions might change from day to day, but they aren't as actively malicious as other villains, and if neither of them have told anyone who Martin is yet, they probably won't. At least, that's what Martin tells himself. It's not like he can do anything about it.

For now, he needs to focus on figuring out what's going on here. He closes his eyes, just for a moment, and feels everything. He feels Tim and Sasha over on the other side of the plant, apparently oblivious to Michael’s appearance. He feels Jon next to him, he feels the slight warp of the concrete where Michael’s door had been. And he feels something else on the wall, something… off a few feet away. The wall doesn't feel right.

“Hey, Jon?” Martin opens his eyes again and inspects the wall, noticing now that the color is just slightly different than the wall around it. “Does the wall there look-”

Jon perks up a bit. “Yes, it- it does. Hold on.”

He goes to the wall and knocks on it. It sounds hollow. It looks like it can't be opened with brute force, so there has to be some kind of mechanism for it somewhere. Martin extends his senses again and feels it, a tiny indent beside the hollow wall. He presses it, and the wall slides outward, revealing an opening inside.

Jon smiles and breathes a small laugh. “Good work, Martin.”

Martin feels his chest and face grow warm. “Oh, um, thank you.”

They fall into silence as they inspect the contents of the small room they've found. Martin expected it to be dusty, but it's actually very clean. It’s almost completely empty, save for a filing cabinet.

“Hm,” Jon says, pulling open one of the drawers.

Nothing. The next few drawers are empty too. Maybe Michael was just messing with them again and the police had already gone over this. It might be nothing. Then the last drawer Jon tries to open refuses to do so. Locked.

“Maybe there's a key somewhere?” Jon says.

“Check the back of the cabinet,” Martin suggests, because even though he might not be able to see it, he can feel the shape of the key.

Jon tries to tip the cabinet over and almost crushes himself underneath it. “I’ll- I’m going to need some help.”

“Oh, right, yeah.” Martin helps support the cabinet as Jon reaches around the back to feel for the key.

Jon finally gets the key and Martin tips the cabinet back upright. “What are you hiding?” Jon mutters as he unlocks the cabinet and pulls it open.

There's only one thing in the cabinet, but it's enough to make the entire trip worthwhile. A book. A journal, by the looks of it.

“Fairchild’s?” Martin asks as Jon gingerly picks up the journal.

Jon opens it and flicks through it. “I don't… I don't know.”

The first several pages are all covered in fractals and spirals, hastily drawn and frenzied. The next several are images of the city’s skyline, streaked with lightning that looks all too similar to the fractals on the pages before. The first journal entry is at least thirty pages in. There isn't a date, and the words are scrawled and messy.

“‘I don't want it,’” Jon reads aloud. “‘I don't want the Spiral.’”

“Who- is this Michael’s?”

Jon shakes his head, looking intently at the writing. “No. His handwriting was different.”

The writing on the next few pages is completely illegible. The pages after that, though, are perfectly clear. Martin moves so he can read over Jon’s shoulder.

‘Fairchild helped save me. Of course, no one gives anyone anything in this city without wanting something in return, but I’m rather happy with what he has provided me. He wants to retire, he says. And he's always wanted a son, or someone like one. I figure he may be lying on the second bit, but I don't think it matters much.’

“Was this… Fairchild didn't give Zeus Energy to anyone,” Jon says, thinking out loud. “Unless…”

“Unless he was talking about being Sky Blue. Turn the page?”

Jon does. There's another entry there.

‘Fairchild — Simon, I guess — made a deal with me. He says that he's willing to give me his moniker, so long as I do what I need to. I don't have a problem with it, really. I'd rather have Vast than Spiral. Says he was planning on attacking Mearns Tower. Spiral made, apparently. I’ll be more than happy to bring it down.’

Martin blinks and tries to process what he's reading. “Mearns Tower? Sky Blue destroyed it-”

“Seven years ago, yes.” Jon turns another page.

‘Fairchild said I should make a different name for myself, stop being only Sky Blue. Makes sense. I think he's bitter that he's too old to fight proper anymore and that I’ve made Sky Blue more famous than he ever did. But I took his advice, and I made myself a different name. Lightning. Think it's rather appropriate, and it sounds much more fitting than Sky Blue ever did.’

“Wait, so Lightning and Sky Blue… they're the same? But Lightning’s not with the Vast. That- that doesn't make sense.” Martin’s struggling to wrap his head around it. Lightning’s been doing hero work for years, he couldn't be Sky Blue.

Jon doesn't comment. He just turns the page.

‘I’ll admit, hero work just isn't as rewarding as what I do as Sky Blue. Lightning’s more loved, sure, and I think I've made that name popular enough, but it's just not as powerful. When I give into those urges, destroy rather than protect, I feel so much better. I feel so much stronger. Fairchild says there needs to be a balance, that it's what we work for. Equilibrium. Whatever the hell that means.’

Next page.

‘Damn fool’s gone and exposed himself. They're out for his blood. I suppose I could take the bullet for him, but it's not worth it. He made Sky Blue, after all, why not let him die as Sky Blue? Doesn't matter who Sky Blue was in the interim. With him gone, I’ll be the Vast’s main herald. I’ll have all the power. Maybe it wants me to keep pretending, to curb the destruction, but as long as I have the power, I guess it doesn't really matter.’

That's the last of it. There are no more entries. Jon flips through the blank pages, glowering.

“This doesn't- this doesn't make any sense,” he says, as if that will somehow fix it.

“They have the same powers.”

That doesn't necessarily mean anything. Martin has most of the same powers as Mr. Spider — except for actually _being_ a spider, of course — and that doesn't make him allied with the Web. But still, the proof is there. Lightning admitted to taking over for Sky Blue, and even mentioned that it was Fairchild that died in his place.

“Lightning has never done anything remotely similar to Sky Blue. His record is spotless.” Jon flips back through the pages with writing, scanning them again. “But if Lightning really did take the mantle of Sky Blue… He did seem much stronger after Mearns Tower. I thought he must have become closer to the Vast and been given more power, but if someone other than Fairchild was Sky Blue after that, maybe someone younger...”

“Well, this whole thing has been a waste of time,” Tim says as he and Sasha come over to where Jon and Martin are standing. “Let’s just pack up and- what did you find?”

“A journal… I- I’m not quite sure who it belongs to,” Jon says as Sasha takes the journal out of his hands to inspect it.

She and Tim take a minute or two to read it. “Well,” Sasha says as soon as they're finished. “Shit.”

“Damn,” Tim says. “Guess we did find something worthwhile after all.”

“Yes, I just wish we know who wrote it,” Jon says, adjusting his glasses impatiently. “We can't exactly do anything unless we know the real identity of who wrote it.”

“Oh, like… Mike Crew?” Sasha asks, turning the journal back around to face Jon and Martin, revealing the small sticker on the inside of the back cover.

Jon takes the journal back. “‘If lost, return to Mike Crew.’” He laughs breathlessly. “He even wrote down his address. Tim, could you-”

“On it.” Tim takes out his phone and starts making a call to the police.

“Well, mystery solved, then,” Sasha says, as if it's ever that easy.

Then Martin feels something. It's not through his webs, but more like a sense of dread deep in his stomach. He looks around and sees nothing. He concentrates on feeling the whole inside of the power plant. Still nothing. The only three people in the power plant besides himself are Sasha, Tim, and Jon. No Distortion doors, no horrible monsters. No sign that anything has happened at all. It’s probably nothing.

But just for a moment, he thinks he catches the faint scent of ozone. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! You guys should check out my friend Casey's art at cryptidkoi on Instagram and at koiboii on tumblr. There's some art for this fic but there's also a lot more art and it is all Very Very Good so you should all go look at it!


	7. Chapter 7

Jon has had a long day. Between the visit to Zeus Energy to the discovery of Lightning and Sky Blue’s true identity to the hours of follow up with the police to the failure to actually apprehend Mike Crew at his apartment… A lot has happened. Maybe not as much as his two near death experiences this week, but he's tired nonetheless. Tired enough that he almost doesn't register the fact that his apartment door is already unlocked when he puts in the key.

He freezes, unable to think of what to do. He considers leaving, calling the police, but he knows that won't work. If it was a run of the mill break in, perhaps. But those don't happen in Scion City. Best to just get it over with.

The air in his apartment is different, but he doesn't see anything right away. He tries to turn on the lights. They don't work. It's too dark to see much of anything, even with the light from the hallway. There's a small draft coming through the apartment from the direction of the windows. One of them must be broken.

“Shut the door, would you?” The voice is unfamiliar, masculine and surprisingly relaxed, coming from the old armchair on the other side of the room.

Jon does. “Who are you?”

The lamp next to the chair turns on, though the stranger doesn’t actually touch it to do so. The stranger is a man, average looking if a bit tall. His only notable feature is the scar stretching over his neck and down under the collar of his shirt. It almost looks like-

“Lightning. Mike Crew. Sky Blue. Take your pick.”

Jon's breath catches in his throat, both figuratively and literally. He can't breathe. He braces himself against the door and sinks to the ground, desperately trying to pull air into his lungs.

“Oh, don't be so dramatic,” Mike Crew says. “Humans can survive for a couple minutes without air.”

Jon chokes in response.

“Well, I guess you'll want to know why I'm here,” Mike continues. “I’d think that would be obvious, especially to one of you, but I’ll give you the short version: you fucked me over, and according to the Vast, you’re fair game. So, we’ll see if you make me like you any more than I do now, and maybe, _maybe_ , I’ll decide to let you live.”

He releases Jon, who sucks in a panicked breath. His chest feels wrong now, like it's been stretched a bit, but right now he's just glad he can breathe. Mike waits patiently, legs crossed and hands resting behind his head.

“Why- what-” Jon doesn't have enough breath to form a sentence. “Simon Fairchild?”

Mike sighs. “Yes, that is what you'd want. I was hoping for more groveling, but maybe it'd to me good to talk about myself.”

He leans forward. “Well, it was, oh, eight years ago now. I got the visit from Breekon and Hope, and they told me that I was a superhuman. Of course, I thought that was cool for all of five seconds before I realized which Entity wanted me. The Spiral. Always hated the damned thing, and it wanted me. I tried to find a direct line of contact to the Spiral itself, but none of the Entities have ever been inclined to display themselves publicly. It refused to see me. And then my body started to change, and I got desperate.

“Fairchild was easy enough to find. Sky Blue, the first and strongest Vast superhuman since the Vast itself. I hadn't totally wasted my opportunities with the Spiral, and I'd made sure to learn what I could. I found out who Fairchild was pretty easily after figuring out what part of the city the Vast-” He cuts himself off with a small smirk. “Oh, I don't think I should tell you that quite yet.”

Jon coughs. “You- what?”

“Oh, there's things a lot bigger than you are, Jonathan Sims. For someone who’s supposed to learn so much, you don't have any grasp of the bigger picture. What do you think the Entities are, Jonathan? Enlighten me.”

Jon hesitates before he answers, hoping whatever he says won't cause Mike to kill him. “They're… they're the first superhumans,” he says. “They learned that giving into their more… destructive urges gave them more power, and turned against the city.”

Mike laughs, bracing his hands on his knees. “Oh, you don't know anything. You’re so ignorant for a… _journalist_.”

“What-”

“No more questions!” Mike snaps, the lamp flickering and flaring. “Now, where were we? Ah, yes. I got into contact with Fairchild, and he told me that he could help me. He gave me some of the Vast’s power, and in return, I took over his… less official business while he ran the power plant. You know what happened from there, seeing how you read my journal on the matter. That's rather rude, you know, going through a man’s things like that.”

Mike looks at Jon expectantly. “I- I’m… sorry,” Jon mutters, though he doesn't think it's too convincing.

“Thank you, Jonathan. Apology… tolerated, for now. Taking over as Sky Blue was enough to get me direct contact with the Vast. The Vast claimed me fully as its own. Both it and Fairchild told me to make myself into something different, and I created Lightning. I hated it at first, loved the destruction I could cause as Sky Blue instead of pretending to be some upstanding hero, but after Fairchild died… It feels _good_. I don't want to stop being Lightning now, even if it means I have to keep pretending. And you ruined it for me, you and your incessant need to dig into things you shouldn't.”

Jon takes a risk. “Why… why would you continue to pretend? Why not make Lightning the same as Sky Blue?”

Mike doesn't seem to mind the question, or at least has decided not to kill Jon yet. “Someone needs to keep a balance. You can't have one Entity getting too strong. I handle the ones that get out of control, or the ones the Vast tells me to stop. It's almost as much of a rush to obliterate other superhumans as it is to knock down buildings. Haven't gotten a chance at Distortion yet. Heard one of them helped you discover me. Is that true?”

“Um, yes, it- it was.” There's not really a point to lying.

“Always hated those assholes. Don't see why the Vast wouldn't want me taking them out. The Spiral’s had enough time to recover,” Mike muses. “But that's later. Now, what should I do with you?”

“I could… I could tell the police we were wrong. Say it was just a mistake. If you kill me-”

“No, no, I don't want anything from you. You've already screwed it up. I don't think there's anything you could give me. And frankly, you’re not great company. It's nice to talk to someone, sure, but I’d prefer someone that wasn't one of you. It's been fun, Jonathan, but-”

He's interrupted by the sound of shattering glass. The lamp goes out, making it difficult to see, but from the flash of black and gold and the accompanying shout of “Sorry!” Jon knows exactly who it is.

The Weaver tumbles in through the window. Jon tries to open the door and get out of the apartment, but has to dive to the side as a ball of electricity flies toward him from where Mike is standing. Except he doesn't look like Mike Crew anymore, he looks like Lightning — glowing and warping, more energy than human. He barely has a face anymore, just a few circles of darkness in a head on a body consisting purely of blue and yellow light. Lightning is glowing now, and it's easy to see where he is, but the Weaver has disappeared entirely. That seems like it shouldn't be possible, with how bright the yellow and gold on his suit are, but he's gone. For a moment, Jon thinks he must have left.

And is proven wrong as Lightning’s glowing form stumbles and falls over, pulled by a nearly invisible line. Jon catches a glimpse of the Weaver, ducking under a bolt of electricity that shoots from Lightning’s hand. The bolt takes out a good chunk of one of the walls.

“Stop moving!” Lightning snarls, and the Weaver does.

At first Jon thinks that it's some bizarre display of courtesy, but then he sees the Weaver clutch at his throat as if he can't breathe. Jon knows he can't breathe. The Weaver tries to materialize something else, but at the movement of his hands, Lightning blasts him back with a burst of wind, sending him flying into a wall. If Jon doesn't do something, the Weaver is going to die, and then Jon is going to die. Lightning seems to be distracted with the Weaver at the moment, so Jon has a chance to do something.

Jon wants to run. He wants to get out. He'd have a chance. But if he runs, the Weaver dies. And Jon’s not about to let anyone die because he didn't do something.

Getting close to Lightning is a bad idea. Even as Jon goes to one of the bookshelves in the corner, he can feel the static and the heat. He takes the first book he can reach out of the shelf and throws it as hard as he can at Lightning. Lightning flinches at the impact, his glow wavering slightly. He turns to look at Jon, and the Weaver gets to his feet, breathing again. Jon throws another book, which serves to do nothing but make Lightning more angry. Lightning says something, but the crackling in his voice makes it impossible to discern.

Then the coffee table is sent flying upward into him by some of the Weaver’s webs. He's knocked backward into the wall, close to where the Weaver had been a moment before. Now the Weaver is on the other side of the apartment next to Jon. Jon didn't even see him move.

“What do we- what do we do?” the Weaver asks.

Jon looks at him incredulously. “I thought you would have a plan.”

The Weaver throws the armchair at Lightning, keeping him down for another few seconds. “Does he have any weaknesses?”

Jon doesn't get a chance to answer as the Weaver roughly pulls him to the side and out of the way of a ball of electricity. He tries to think, but there's nothing in the apartment they can use. Sky Blue was taken down by three superhumans and twenty police officers. He was an old man and it still took all of that force to bring him down. And Jon and the Weaver are remarkably short on guns or bullets or Hunters at the moment. They don't have a way to fight him. Unless…

“Keep him distracted,” Jon says to the Weaver, who ducks under another electric attack.

The Weaver doesn't respond, just yelps as he barely dodges out of the way of the chair that Lightning throws back at him. It seems that Lightning is focusing solely on the Weaver now, which gives Jon enough time to do what he needs to. He's not entirely sure if it will work, but it's not like there's any other options.

“Come on, where is it…” Jon mutters as he digs through the drawers in his desk. “I know I- ah!”

He pulls his old lighter out from under a stack of papers. He'd meant to throw it away years ago, but he'd always forgotten about it. Until now, thankfully. Hopefully this will actually work. He glances at Lightning and the Weaver. The Weaver is using the coffee table as a shield while Lightning continues trying to electrocute him. The Weaver doesn't look like he can last much longer, but Jon hopes he doesn't need to.

He flicks open the lighter and looks at the ceiling. The sprinkler for the fire suppression system is right above him. If he can get close enough with the lighter and turn it on, it might just be enough to stop Lightning.

“Weaver!” Jon calls.

The Weaver throws the table into Lightning, buying him a moment before the attacks resume. His hands move and Jon feels a web wrap around his chest and pull him upward. He flicks the lighter on and holds in under the sprinkler, hoping the sensors pick it up. Lightning sends out another blast of air, knocking Jon down to the floor and the Weaver into the nearest wall. But it's too late. The sprinkler system engages and fills the room with falling water.

Lightning rises a couple inches off the floor, sparking and sizzling. Then he sinks back down, his glow starting to waver. The water can't put out the electricity, but it can redirect the current back into Lightning himself. If he doesn't want to fry himself to death, he’ll have to turn back to normal. And he does, arcs of blue and yellow retracting into his body, skin overtaking the glow. Lightning becomes Mike Crew again.

“You sons of-”

He's cut off by the lamp slamming into his face, attached to a thin line of web. He blinks, seeming confused. Then he falls flat on his back. Unmoving.

“Is he-”

“Still breathing,” the Weaver says, sounding relieved. “I think- I think he's knocked out though. I hope so.”

They both watch, completely still. Mike Crew doesn't get up. The sprinklers continue to rain down water.

Jon starts to get up from the floor and feels the Weaver’s steadying arm at his side. “Careful,” the Weaver says.

“I’m-” Jon groans, jarred from the impact of being thrown to the ground and lungs still feeling off. “I’m fine.”

“Are you? Do you- do you need me to call the hospital?”

“We should probably let the police know he's here.” Jon takes off his glasses, which are completely covered in water and impossible to see through. “And I would like to get out of this apartment.”

“Oh! Right, right, yeah.” The Weaver takes one last look at Mike Crew before going to the door and opening it for Jon.

The sprinklers out in the hallway aren't on. The whole system in the apartments was damaged back when Fireball attacked it several years before, and it seems to never have been fixed. The Weaver leaves the door open, keeping a careful eye on Mike’s unconscious body as he makes a quick phone call to the police.

Now that they're out in the light for the first time since Jon has met him, it’s easy to see the Weaver clearly. The gold and yellow lines on his suit almost glow, though if it's the light or the suit itself Jon isn't entirely sure. There are gold lines on the back of his arms, a circle around his elbow and ending in another at his wrist, looking almost like thin, spindly spider legs. Still, despite the suit and mask, he looks remarkably… human. Normal. Most superhumans are, Jon supposes, except for those like the Hellhound or the Boneturner or the Ringleader, but this is different, somehow. The Weaver may be superhuman, but he's still a person, much more obviously so than any other superhuman Jon has met. Although maybe that's just because the Weaver hasn't tried to kill him.

The Weaver finishes the call and puts his phone back into a sealed pocket in his suit. “Um, sorry about your window. And your- your whole apartment actually.”

“It’s alright.” Jon does his best to wipe his glasses off on his completely drenched shirt and puts them back on. “Better than being dead.”

“And thank you- thank you for saving me. That was… um, good. It was good thinking.”

“Well, I thought I might make up for the three times you've saved my life in the past week.”

“You- you definitely did. I really thought I was going to die for a minute there.” It's impossible to see the Weaver’s face under his mask, but his voice sounds slightly distant. “I… um… Did you at least find anything out?”

Jon sighs. “I don't… I’m not sure. It’s… complicated. Why did- why are you here?”

“I've been looking around the city for Lightning since the police made the announcement about who he is. I happened to be going by your apartment and saw him in there. Good, uh, good timing, right?”

“Yes. I… he was about to kill me because I exposed him. That, and I’m not the best company, apparently.”

“Oh, I don't know. I think you’re-” Distantly, sirens begin to sound, moving closer every moment. “Oh, that reminds me.” The Weaver pulls a piece of paper out of a pocket in his suit and hands it to Jon. “If you decide to do something dangerous, give me- give me a call first.”

Jon takes the slip of paper and looks at the phone number written there. “Thank you.”

The Weaver starts to say something else, but is interrupted when one of Jon’s neighbors opens their door. “What’s going on?”

Jon takes a second to think of how best to answer. “Superhumans.”

“Oh.” Jon’s neighbor closes their door, apparently unperturbed.

When Jon tries to turn back to the Weaver, the Weaver is already gone. The only signs that he was there at all are the paper in Jon’s hand, the unconscious form of Mike Crew, and the open window at the end of the hallway. And the sound of sirens, getting ever closer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Everyone reading this should check out cryptidkoi on Instagram. There's now a really fuckin awesome comic of a scene from chapter one and all of you should go look at it


	8. Chapter 8

**Hero Hour  
Episode 78: The Weaver**

Since September, a new hero has been making waves in Scion City. From the Boneturner to the recently deposed Lightning, the Weaver’s taken down an impressive list of foes. Lucky for you, dear listeners, your favorite host and podcast personality Georgie Barker has managed to secure an exclusive interview, where we discuss everything from keeping secret identities secret to where the hell he puts his phone.

_10 October, 2018 at 4:18PM._

(Episode resumed at 21:12)

Georgie: Well, that's objectively horrifying. You have any pleasant encounters in your hero work?

Weaver: Um… not particularly. I guess Lightning wasn't as creepy as most of the others I've fought, but I did think I was going to die, so… not great.

Georgie: Come on, there's got to be something in it that's not completely awful.

Weaver: I don't know, it's kind of… fun, sometimes, I guess? When you're fighting things like the Flesh Hive, you know, it's awful, but then fighting things like the Wolf or Fangs isn't quite as bad. It's kind of… awesome to take down villains. Nice to be doing some real good around the city.

Georgie: Yeah, I’ll bet it looks really good on a resumé. Now, this one’s from one of our listeners: Do you have a sidekick yet?

Weaver: (laughs) Well, not officially. Although I have had some help on a couple occasions from Jon Sims, from the paper. He actually was the one that came up with the plan to defeat Lightning.

Georgie: Yeah, he's always been a clever one. Sounds like you've come up with some good plans yourself. You have any villains in mind that you want to use that you want to use that strategizing against?

Weaver: Er, not really. I’m not exactly… inclined to start fighting any big names yet, at least not on purpose.

Georgie: Really? You’d think that the hero that took down the Flesh Hive and Lightning might have more confidence.

Weaver: Confidence… has never really been my strong suit. And I’m much happier keeping people safe in what ways I can than trying to fight someone I can take on.

Georgie: Well, that's a good motivation if I ever heard one. Now, here's another one from a listener: Real life spiders have venom. If you bit someone, would they die?

(Episode paused at 23:35)

\-----

Martin’s job has always been weird, but writing articles about himself is a whole new level of weird. In the weeks he's been the Weaver, especially after helping take down Lightning, he's gained a lot of traction around the city. As soon as the frenzy around Lightning died down, the Weaver became the hot new topic in Scion City. It’s disconcerting, but it makes Martin’s day job easier. The stories practically write themselves.

“Does anyone want Mike Crew’s entire academic record?” Sasha says late one day as she, Jon, and Martin are all sitting around the main table in the lobby.

“Not particularly.” Jon types something into his laptop and looks over the scattered folders he has laid out over his side of the table.

“Why… why do you have that?” Martin asks Sasha.

She shrugs. “His old school just emailed them to me. Or the _Times_ account, more specifically.”

“I’m more interested in what he wasn't telling me.” Jon picks up a file, considers it, and puts it back down. “There's something about the Entities we don't know.”

“Yeah, like everything?” Sasha says, starting to type again.

“Why would the Vast let Mike Crew actively attack the agents of other Entities? Why have him convince everyone he was a hero? Why waste the time?”

“Maybe it's a better look for the Vast if not everyone with the power set is allied with it?” Martin ventures.

“‘Equilibrium,’ that's what the journal said,” Jon says, either not hearing Martin or ignoring him. “What does it mean?”

Sasha sighs and pushes her laptop to the side. “Look, Jon, you need to stop driving yourself insane over this. Mike Crew was just fucking with you because you ruined his life.”

“And what about the journal?”

“It said that _Fairchild_ told him to be a hero as Lightning,” Martin points out. “And who- who knows what he wanted? It was probably so people would be less suspicious of him.”

“Then why would the Vast take him so easily? The Entities only take superhumans with their power set, and Mike Crew was meant to have Spiral powers. And the way Crew talked about the Entities, he made it sound-”

Sasha interrupts Jon in the middle of his explanation. “Like they're not people. Yes, Jon, you've told us. We can't do anything about it. We have no evidence that it meant anything except to screw with your head.”

“What if it wasn't? What if this was what Gertrude-”

This time it's Martin who interrupts him. “Jon.”

Jon stops, then reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Yes, you’re right. I- I haven't put anyone in danger, but-”

“I think almost getting murdered by Mike Crew counts,” Sasha says.

“Well, that was hardly my fault, was it?”

Sasha grins at him. “That's true. We can hardly blame our resident damsel in distress for getting in trouble again.”

Martin hides his laugh behind his hand. Jon doesn't really respond, just grumbles and continues looking at his files. The three of them lapse into silence again, continuing their work. Then the lift door opens and Tim steps out.

“Hey Martin, Elias wants to see you,” Tim says.

“Oh, um, he does?”

“Yep. Performance review or something like that.” Tim throws his bag onto the table before sitting down with a huff. “Told me some garbage about how I should ‘stop making baseless attacks against agents of certain Entities in my articles.’ Sure, Elias, maybe when they stop being supervillains, I’ll treat them a bit nicer.”

Martin sighs and gets up from his chair. It's almost the end of the workday, and it's not like he has much time to spare. At least Elias usually tends to get to whatever point he has quickly enough.

“Good luck,” Sasha teases with a small wink. “Don't get yourself fired.”

“I’ll try,” Martin says and turns to head to the lift.

The lift takes longer than it should to open. As soon as it does, Martin sees why: there's another person in it, coming from another floor. Martin recognizes him instantly. Peter Lukas, mayor of Scion City. Lukas smiles at Martin.

“Hello, Mr. Blackwood,” he says, even though Martin has never met him before.

After a moment’s hesitation, Martin steps in the lift. “Uh, hello, um, Mr. Lukas.”

Lukas laughs, and it sounds… _off_. “Oh, please, call me Peter.”

The doors close, despite Martin willing them not to. He wants to get out of the lift. He very much wants to get out of the lift. His chest is tightening and he can barely breathe. Something is _wrong_.

“So, you’re wanting to talk to Elias, I presume?” Lukas asks.

Martin stutters out something close enough to “Yes.”

Unwillingly, he expands his senses and starts to feel through the webs. Lukas is there, Martin knows he is, but he doesn't feel like he's there. He feels like an absence. Not like nothing, but the lack of anything being there at all, like the space itself that he occupies just doesn't exist. It's not a good feeling.

“Hm, well, please don't keep him long.” Why isn't the lift moving faster? “He and I have some urgent business to discuss.”

Martin doesn't respond. The lift opens and he steps out as quickly as possible. Before he can leave, Lukas claps a hand on his shoulder. Martin has to force himself not to physically recoil.

“Good luck,” Lukas says, and Martin doesn't even try to think about what that might mean.

The lift closes. Lukas doesn't exit. Martin’s not sure why he hasn't gotten out, or why he'd been there in the first place, but right now, he doesn't want to think about it.

He puts Lukas as far out of his mind as he can and walks over to Elias’s office. It's the only room on this floor. Like the reporters’ floor below it, there are windows on all four walls, though on side is covered by Elias’s office. It's a very large office and the windows on the front allow a view of it. Perfect and immaculate, with a large desk and chair and several potted (possibly fake) plants. Elias is sitting at his desk, casually examining the sleeve of his suit, waiting.

Martin opens the door. “You, um, you wanted to see me?”

“Ah, yes, Martin. Come in, come in. Shut the door behind you, please.” Elias looks up from his sleeve and smiles, reclined slightly in his chair.

Martin’s not sure where to go, since there isn't an extra chair or anything, but it seems awkward to stand. “I, uh, did you… need something?”

“Oh, the quarterly review is all. I don't find it particularly necessary, but it's a company requirement. You know how it is.”

“Oh, y- yeah.” Martin laughs awkwardly, not sure what his response should be.

Elias picks up a pen off his neatly arranged desk and centers a sheet of paper in front of him. “Alright, let’s begin… Do you enjoy your work?”

“Um, yes? I- I think so.”

“Hm.” Elias writes something down. “Do you ever feel unsafe in your workplace?”

Martin blinks. “Sometimes. It’s- it's a little hard _not_ to feel unsafe when you get attacked by monsters.”

Elias continues writing. “Do you enjoy working with your colleagues?”

“Yes.”

“Do you find your work outside of your job fulfilling?”

“The- my- what?”

Elias looks up, smiling… not quite pleasantly. “I think you know what I mean.”

Martin feels his heart drop out through his feet. “I- um, I- I- I’m not sure-”

“I wouldn't suggest lying to me, Martin.”

“I- I, um…” He knows. How does he know? “I don't…”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “You don't…” he prompts.

“I- it’s, um, it’s… good, I guess. Uh, yeah. Good.”

“Good. Very good. I don't want your delusions of grandeur going to your head. You shouldn't start thinking you're more important than you actually are.” Elias writes one last thing, then puts down his pen. “Now, do you have any complaints about your workplace?”

Martin blinks and takes a minute to actually process Elias’s words before answering. “No, I- I don't think so.”

“Good. Do you have any questions?”

Yes. Of course he does. There's no way he couldn't. “Um, no,” Martin says.

Elias checks his watch. “Well, I think we're done here. Your work has been… satisfactory, and if you don't have any complaints…”

“No! No- no other complaints.” Martin needs to get out of here right now.

“Alright. You’re dismissed.”

It takes all of Martin’s willpower not to sprint to the lift. As soon as the doors shut behind him, he sinks down to the floor, not even bothering to press the button. Elias _knows_. How does he know? Who else knows? He should be thankful that it's just Elias, not someone else, but he can't. Being in that office with him, talking to him, everything felt so _wrong_. Martin’s not sure if it was the webs or just his instincts, but there was something incredibly off about the whole thing. Martin doesn't think Elias would tell anyone, there wouldn't be a point to it, but he can't be sure. If he does…

If he tells Martin’s friends, they’ll hate him. If he tells anyone else, they’ll all become targets. He’s putting them all in danger by existing. Jon had asked him to help, to try and make sure they all stay relatively safe. But now, Martin can't even do that. Sure, he can try to protect them, but if word gets out about who Martin is… Exposed superheroes die. Their friends die. Everyone around them gets killed.

Elias wouldn't expose Martin. It would put him in danger too. The thought isn't particularly convincing, but it will have to work for now. Martin needs to leave, and he can't do that if he sits in the lift having a panic attack. He takes a shaky breath and gets to his feet, pressing the button to go back down to his floor.

Jon is the only one still there. The work day has been over for a few minutes, and Tim and Sasha have never been inclined to work overtime. Jon is at the main table, staring at his computer. He doesn't seem to have noticed Martin yet, so Martin takes a few seconds to compose himself before going over. He can't have himself looking like he's on the verge of a breakdown.

As Martin collects his things, he clears his throat to get Jon’s attention. “Do you- do you need a place to stay tonight?” He's been sleeping in his office ever since Mike Crew, despite being offered multiple places to stay instead.

“No, I’m… They finished repairs on my apartment last night.”

Martin fights the urge to apologize, because while it is his fault Jon’s apartment got trashed, it wasn't _Martin_ who did it. “Oh. That's- uh, that's good.”

“Yes, it…” Jon looks back down at his files, clearing his throat awkwardly. “Er, yes, it is.”

“Are you… okay going back there?”

Jon sighs. “I- I think so. Mike Crew is in the Tunnels now, so I should… it should be safe.” He pauses. “I… he could have gone after any one of us. If he'd gone after Tim, or Sasha, or- or you… I was lucky the Weaver showed up, but…”

“You can't blame yourself for that, Jon. It's not- it wasn't your fault, it wasn't anyone’s fault.”

“I know. It’s- We’re close to something, Martin. Someone wants to stop us from finding it out. And I don't think it's as simple as stopping ourselves from looking for it. We didn't go looking for Mike Crew, and still… We’re on the edge of something big, and we’re going to find it whether we try to or not.”

Martin feels it too, though he hates admitting it. “Yeah. I just- Be careful, Jon. Please.”

“I… I’ll try.”

“If you find anything… We’re a team. You, me, Tim, Sasha, we all work together. If you need us…”

“I… I know. Thank you, Martin.”

Martin smiles, feeling some of the panic from Elias melt away. “Of course.”

Jon stands from the table. “Alright. Well, I still have some things to finish up here, but- but you should probably go home. You look…”

“Tired?” Martin suggests, hoping Jon only sees that he's tired and not that he's afraid. Jon can't know about what Elias said.

“Yes. You should- you should get some rest.”

Martin smiles. “I’ll try.”

As nice as it is to talk to Jon, it's even better to get out of the _Times_ building. Martin needs to stop being Martin right now. He needs to be the Weaver. Maybe then he'd be able to stop thinking about Elias, about the fact that he could expose Martin to anyone he wants whenever he wants. The Weaver is strong enough not to worry.

The nights are getting colder, but it hardly bothers Martin. As soon as he goes to his flat and puts on the suit, everything stops bothering him. He still feels the gnawing anxiety, but it's muted, distant. Now all he has to worry about is keeping watch, getting from building to building, making sure no villains are patrolling the night along with him.

Scion City is nice at night. It's filled with little pricks of light from windows of countless buildings, small twinkling signs that people are there. The sounds of traffic are quieter. It seems like it's safer. It isn't, of course, but the illusion of quiet and peace is better than nothing.

Martin likes doing this, likes the hero work. It’s good to be able to help people, to actually make a difference. And being the Weaver, he doesn't have to worry about what he says to people, how he interacts with them. He's a superhero, and people won't stop liking him because he said something stupid. This work is difficult and it's dangerous, but it's easier, somehow.

This night is calmer than most, and Martin almost finds himself relaxing as the hours pass.

At least until a ball of fire slams into him out of nowhere and sends him plummeting toward the street below.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly at this point like half my fics with Martin in them could be summed up with "Martin has a bad time in an elevator"


	9. Chapter 9

Martin barely manages to recover before he hits the ground. He doesn't get a solid hold on the line he pulls through and it only slows his momentum instead of stopping it. He hits the concrete and rolls, frantically trying to make sure he's not on fire. The suit is fireproof, but if this is what he thinks it is, it's impossible to be sure it won't catch. A brief extension of his senses confirms his suspicions. He feels the edge of reality burning, searing with heat that seems to come from everywhere. There's only one thing that could do that. Fireball.

He sees bright, glowing orange at the edge of his vision as Fireball floats down a few feet away from him, almost every part of her aflame. “Weaver,” she says, voice filled with an undercurrent of something boiling.

Martin completely blanks on anything he might say. “Do you… need something?”

She laughs darkly, part of her melted face dripping onto the ground before what's left shifts again to repair it. “I think you know what I need.”

“I… really don’t.” Martin tries to think of any reason this might be happening, but it's overshadowed by the relief that she's not currently trying to burn him alive.

She cocks her head to the side. “Oh?”

Martin tries a diplomatic approach. “Listen, Jude, I’m not sure-”

“Don't call me that,” she snaps, the heat that surrounds her flaring outward so that Martin has to take a few steps back.

“S- sorry, I-”

“You don't know?” she mocks, taking a few steps toward him.

“No, I- I’m not-” He cuts himself off, not knowing what he should say. There's no way he can fight Fireball. Even the strongest, most seasoned heroes can't fight Fireball. She's far too dangerous. There's a reason she's been at large in the city for so long, even though everyone knows who she is.

“Say her name.”

“Who- whose name?”

“You fucking know whose name.”

Fireball is glowing even brighter now, and the heat is bad enough to make Martin start to sweat. Despite the heat, a vice of cold fear tightens around his chest. “No, I- I don't.”

“Hm.” She appears to take a moment to consider, hovering slightly off the ground. “Doesn't matter. Burning you alive will still feel good.”

Martin tries to plead for her to wait, to consider, but there's no point. Fireball doesn't tend to listen, and it's hard for Martin to talk when he's desperately trying to get out of the way of her flames. He dives, and the jet of fire passes above his head, barely missing. He tries to pull through a web so he can get to higher ground, but the heat burns it away before it can even fully form. He can feel it through his suit, clawing at him, trying to melt him. He's going to die. She's going to kill him.

He leaps to his feet and takes off down the street, trying to figure out where exactly he is. He's somewhere downtown, but he doesn't know where, and he doesn't have time to figure it out. There are a bunch of shops and restaurants, most of them closed for the night. There are people. Too many people. Some have the good sense to get out of the way, but some are taking out phones, standing on the side of the street to film. There are cars on the street itself, some driving, some stopped and watching. Too many people. There are too many people here. Martin has to get somewhere else or someone’s going to get hurt.

Fireball is right behind him. It feels awful to sense his webs right now with how much they’re burning, but it's the only way he can tell what's she's doing without turning around. He ducks out of the way of another volley of flames, which get dangerously close to a passing car. Martin has to get out of here _now_. Fireball doesn't care about who she hurts, and if they stay here, it’s going to be a lot of people. He can't use his webs, but he can't get off street level without them. He has to figure something out.

And then he has an idea. A stupid idea, yes, practically suicidal, but it's better than nothing. It's not like he has much of a chance to make it out alive anyway.

Martin stops running.

He unfastens his cloak and turns on the balls of his feet. He clutches the fabric tightly in his hands and Fireball continues charging toward him. At the last second, he leaps into the air, holding the cloak in front of him like a flimsy shield. Fireball can't stop in time and Martin lands on top of her, the cloak the only thing between them. White hot pain shoots through his hands and every other part of body that touches her, but he holds on. She tries to shake him off, but his hands have sunk into her skin (is it skin?) and he's holding on as tightly as he can manage. She won't be able to get him off unless-

She shoots up into the air. Martin barely manages to keep a grip on the cloak and on Fireball as she rockets up past the building rooftops. As soon as they're high enough, Martin drops, landing roughly on the top of one of the buildings. Fireball still has the cloak around her. It seems to have fused with her skin. Martin still isn't far enough away to use his webs, but now he can control where Fireball goes. He takes a second to try to get his bearings. He still isn't sure where exactly they are, but he sees something a few blocks away and knows where he has to go. A construction site. Somewhere he can be sure there won't be people, at least at this time of night.

He starts running. Fireball finally manages to throw the cloak off and starts after him. The few seconds of delay give Martin enough distance that he can finally pull through a web, one to run between two buildings much to far apart to jump. Still, she's much faster than he is. She catches him quickly enough.

He manages to get out of the way of the ball of fire she throws at him, but he doesn't move fast enough to get out of her path. She barrels into him, sending him flying forward and skidding across the concrete of the rooftop. He flips over onto his back, not having enough time to get to his feet and hoping that if he can see her maybe he can stop her from burning him alive. The first thing he sees is her flaming fist punching down toward his face. He screams and rolls sideways, feeling the flying shrapnel cut into him as her strike smashes through the concrete. He kicks upward, putting enough space between them that he can get out from under her and to his feet.

He only has two more buildings to get across before he reaches the construction site. He's not sure if he has time. He needs to try to talk her down. He doesn't think he can, but if he can calm her down enough that when she kills him she doesn't explode all of the buildings around him, it would be good enough.

“Why are you doing this?” he shouts over the roar of her flames, ducking under the fire that comes out of her hands.

She stops, melting lips curled back from her teeth in a snarl, flames dying down the tiniest bit. “You killed her.”

Everything around him still burns, but there are a few of the stronger webs still there, ready to be pulled through. If he can just reach one of them… “I haven't killed anyone, I-”

Her laugh is bitter and angry. “I know. I don't care. Your kind killed her, if that's what you want to hear. But it's an eye for an eye in this city, and I want to collect.”

“You don't have to-”

“Say her name.”

“I- I’m sorry, I don't know who-”

And then it hits him. He does know who she's talking about. Blaze. The superhero with fire powers, the first of her kind. She'd helped the city countless times over the years, at least until Fireball had appeared. Then Blaze had gone to the Desolation, tempted there by Jude Perry. Until Blaze was killed by Puppeteer in a battle that almost leveled the city.

“Agnes Montague,” Martin says.

The corners of Fireball’s mouth lift in a sneer. “There. That wasn't so hard, was it?”

Then she flickers and suddenly she's grabbing Martin by the shoulders. He feels the last of his webs burn away and he can feel nothing but heat. He tries to wriggle out of her grip, but she digs her thumbs into his shoulders, puncturing through his suit. He screams and she throws him. He's not entirely sure where he goes. Everything hurts and he can't feel and he can barely see and he doesn't know where he is or what is happening. He hits concrete and feels some of his ribs snap and his head slam against the rooftop.

He tries to get up, to get away, but she's on him again before he can. She hovers over him, arms outstretched and flaming. He can feel the heat radiating off her. It's not really burning him, not quite yet. She's not using her full heat and his suit is enough to protect him from the worst of it, but that hardly matters. It _hurts_.

“I didn't- I wasn't-” Talking hurts too, even worse than breathing does.

“She wasn't supposed to die.” Her voice is garbled and thick. “We agreed-” She stops, and Martin can't tell if the hitch in her voice is from emotion or her melted skin. “We _all_ agreed. She never killed one of yours. You broke the deal.”

“I… didn't do… anything.”

“You’re all responsible. All of the Web. You’re all going to pay.”

Martin tries to protest, to tell her that he isn't with the Web, but he never gets the chance. She kicks him in the chest, hard enough to crack a few more ribs. The force is enough to push him off the edge of the building they're on, sending him falling into the street below. He lands on an awning for some restaurant before he rolls off onto the ground, enough to break his fall so he doesn't die. Dimly he's aware that there are people here too, people inside the restaurant and on the street and too many places for them not to get hurt.

He tries to pull through a web, to get back out of the street, but Fireball attacks him again before he has the chance. She lands in the street a few feet away and throws fire at him. It's still not quite enough to burn through the suit, but the impact sends him back through the glass front of the restaurant. He has just enough time to cover his head with his arms as best he can, but the glass slices through his suit in too many places to keep track of. People scream and run, trying to get out of the way of the fight. Dimly, Martin is aware of the fact that he has to get out, has to go, has to keep moving, but it's hard to think. It's hard to do anything.

Desperately, he reaches for a line, anything he can use. He dodges out of the way of more fire, screaming at the pain that shoots through his broken ribs at the movement. He pulls through one of the few webs that remains and uses it to propel himself forward and back outside, even as it disintegrates. This seems to surprise Fireball enough to buy him a second to do something. He leaps upward, catching hold of an awning, using what remains of his strength to pull himself up. He climbs as quickly as he can, scrabbling for purchase on windows and cracks in the wall.

He gets to the roof. Fireball is right behind him, glowing even brighter, even hotter. Martin doesn't have much time. Why doesn't he have much time? A blast of flames from behind sends him sliding across the roof, teeth gritted against the burning heat. Then he looks in front of him and remembers where he needs to go. The construction site. Yes. He needs to get there before Fireball gets to full power.

He reaches out for his webs, and it hurts because everything there is burning too, but he can feel some that are still whole, still able to be used. He can't run, so he staggers forward, moving toward the edge of this building. The construction site is right in front of him now, and he pulls through a web that he tries to walk on. Tries, because he doesn't have the balance to actually do it. He manages to grab onto it with one hand, crying out as the motion jars his ribs, and swing himself forward, enough that he catches hold of a steel beam and pulls himself inside the partially completed building. It's mostly the base structure, no walls or windows, only support beams instead of full floors. No one there. It's good enough.

Fireball is right behind him. Martin can't feel her and she's too bright to look at, but the light and heat radiating out of her are enough to know she's there. It's getting worse. If she charges to her full power, the fire will level everything around them. It doesn't matter if Martin found a place with no one in it, she’ll destroy every building around them. He can't let her do that. So he stops trying to run. He turns to face Fireball, shutting his eyes against her brightness. She says something, but it's so obscured by the noise of the fire and her melted body that he can't make it out. He's not sure he really cares.

She throws more fire at him. This time, he lets it hit. The impact and the heat send him backward, stumbling off the beam. He lets himself fall. She sends more fire after him, and he waits until he feels it start to enclose him that he reaches out and catches hold of one of the floor beams. Something in his shoulder tears, but he holds on, clutching the beam and bringing up his other arm so he can hang underneath it. It hurts. As the fire continues roaring beside him, he holds on, clenching his teeth to stop from screaming.

Then it all stops. The fire goes out. Martin waits. If Fireball thinks he's dead, then maybe she’ll stop. Maybe she’ll leave. Martin hopes she can't see him, that she thinks he burned up. He waits for what seems like an eternity. Then, slowly, he feels the webs begin to return, to rebuild themselves. She's gone.

He doesn't have enough strength to pull himself up, so he lets go and drops to the ground. He hits another beam on the way down and lands flat on his back. The impact knocks what air is left out of him and sends agony shooting through his broken ribs. He lays there for several minutes, desperately trying to breathe.

He needs help. He needs to get help. He can't tell how hurt he is because everything hurts, but he knows it's bad. He can't go to the hospital; they'll find out who he is. He can't let anyone know who he is. He doesn't know where to go. He doesn't know who to go to.

No. He does know who he can go to. He just hopes he can get there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, maybe this wasn't exactly the _best_ timing for this chapter considering my very high levels of distress and worry over Martin in canon, but, well... 
> 
> I guess it's still not the Lonely?


	10. Chapter 10

Jon is sitting in an uncomfortable wooden chair in his apartment, reading one of the few books he has that wasn't totally destroyed when, for the third time that month, someone breaks in through his window. Jon shouts in surprise, nearly falling backward out of the chair. He rights himself and gets to his feet, protectively holding the book in front of him, as though that would do anything against whoever this might be. Then he sees who it is. The relief that replaces the fear is quickly swallowed by worry.

The Weaver weakly pulls himself the rest of the way through the window and collapses to the floor, battered and bloody.

Jon drops the book and darts over, helping support the Weaver as he tries and fails to climb to his feet. He looks bad. His cloak is gone and his suit is dark and scorched. There are small cuts all over, mostly on his back. He has what looks like puncture wounds in both shoulders, though those aren't bleeding; they're cauterized, badly burned. There must also be injuries that Jon can't see, because the Weaver cries out and whimpers feebly as Jon helps lower him to the floor. His breathing is rough and labored.

“Sorry… ‘bout your… window,” the Weaver mumbles. “Had to…” He moans and puts a hand to his side.

“Don’t- don't try to talk,” Jon says. “I’ll… I’ll…”

He doesn't have the first clue about what to do. He supposes that he should call an ambulance, get the Weaver somewhere that actually has medical care. But there must be a reason that the Weaver didn't do that himself. And then Jon figures it out. The Weaver didn't go to a hospital because the doctors that would treat him would find out who he is. He came to Jon because he trusts him. The Weaver trusts Jon.

Which means Jon should stop standing around and do something to help.

He has a first aid kit behind the mirror in his bathroom. He makes sure the Weaver is on the floor and not trying to get up before he goes and gets it, opening it as he walks back. There's a roll of bandages, gauze pads, some disinfectant, adhesive bandages, a splint. Nothing that is going to be overly helpful, but it will have to do.

“Ah, alright, um.” Jon kneels down next to the Weaver. “We’re going to… we’re going to have to move you.”

“Fine… here,” the Weaver says. “Just need to… rest… a bit.”

That gives Jon something else to worry about. “You didn't- did you hit your head?”

“Mm… think so… Maybe… Yeah.”

“That's…” Jon sighs, tries to think of what to do. “I’m going to have to check for a head injury.”

“Hm.”

That isn't much in the way of confirmation, but it will have to do. Jon hesitates, then reaches out and gently runs his fingers up the Weaver’s neck, feeling for the edge of his mask. The Weaver shudders and then at the movement. Jon finds the seam, gets his fingers under it, and starts to pull it up.

Then the Weaver reaches up and grasps Jon's wrist with a strength that it doesn't seem like he should have in this state. “Don't.”

“I- I know, but I have to check and see-”

“I’m… fine.” He wheezes, which Jon thinks might be an attempt at laughter. “Well, sort of. Just… concussion… I think.”

“I still-”

It's impossible to see the Weaver’s face under the mask, but his voice is filled with near desperation. “ _Please_.”

Jon takes a moment. He really should check, see how bad whatever the Weaver did to his head is. But, a small part of himself says, that's not the only reason he wants to take off the mask. It's an opportunity. An opportunity to see who the Weaver is, to uncover his identity. And Jon is overcome with that compulsion, that need he feels so often, the need to learn, to understand, to-

No. He's not doing that. The Weaver is trusting him now, and Jon’s not going to betray that. He's not that kind of person. He should be, that same part of him says, but he's not.

Jon lets go of the Weaver’s mask. “Alright.”

The Weaver drops Jon’s wrist. “Thank you.”

Jon gets to work on the rest of the Weaver’s injuries. His shoulders are by far the worst, and Jon’s not entirely sure about what to do about those. He peels the suit away from the wounds to better inspect them. They're maybe a few centimeters deep and very badly burned.

“What happened?” Jon asks.

“Fireball,” the Weaver answers.

Jon doesn't press him further. There would hardly be a point anyway; it doesn't seem like the Weaver can really talk. Jon just works on disinfecting the wounds. The Weaver hisses in pain, but keeps remarkably still. Jon puts a gauze pad on each of the punctures, then moves on to inspecting the smaller cuts all over the Weaver’s body. He's putting an adhesive bandages over a particularly bad one on the Weaver’s arm when the Weaver sucks in a large breath, coughing and sitting bolt upright. Jon jolts back instinctively as the Weaver groans and puts his hands over his ribs.

“Ow,” he says. “Dammit.”

“What… Are you- are you alright?” It's a stupid question, but it's the only thing Jon can think of.

“Ribs… popped back,” the Weaver says, groaning and exhaling, voice sounding slightly less strained. “I think I heal faster than a normal person. Never broken a bone before, so- ow.” He winces and holds his side.

He starts to try and get to his feet, putting his arm around Jon for support. “Careful, careful,” Jon says, trying to lower him back down to the floor.

“I’m fi- shit!” The Weaver’s legs collapse from under him, leaving Jon supporting his full weight. “Sorry.”

“It’s- it’s alright,” Jon says, trying to get the Weaver to stop attempting to get up as much as actually responding to the apology.

The Weaver sinks back down to the floor, sitting upright this time instead of laying down. He keeps one arm wrapped around his torso but seems to be doing considerably better. Now that he's sitting, Jon can see the cuts on his back. Most of them are relatively small, but some are much larger. The larger ones probably should be stitched, but Jon doesn't have a needle and thread to do it with, much less something actually sterile. The adhesive bandages will have to do.

“Why did you fight Fireball?” Jon asks as he wipes some blood away.

“I didn't choose to.” The Weaver coughs and struggles to breathe for a second, then continues. “She attacked me. She thought I was with the Web.”

“Hm.”

The Weaver flinches as Jon applies some of the disinfectant. “She said the Web… broke some deal, or- or something. When Puppeteer killed Blaze.”

“What deal?”

The Weaver tries to shrug, but one shoulder doesn't seem to be working right and the movement causes him to wince with the pain. “I’m not sure. I was mostly focused on not- on not dying. Can we… do this later? It's hard to… hard to think, a little bit.”

Jon sighs, adjusting his glasses. “Right. Of course.”

“It's okay. It's, um, it's your job.”

There's silence for a while, except for occasional noises of pain from the Weaver and Jon telling him to stay still. It takes a while to get to all the cuts the Weaver, but eventually, Jon gets it done. The Weaver still isn't in good condition — he's still holding his ribs and Jon’s noticed that he's favoring his right shoulder — though he's certainly much better than when he came in. He should still probably go to a hospital, but Jon doesn't even want to bother bringing it up. Still, that leads Jon to another question.

“Why come to me?” he asks as he shifts so he’s more in front of the Weaver.

“What?”

“Why did- Why would you come here? Why do you trust me?”

The Weaver doesn't say anything for a second, his optics narrowing a bit. “I… um, well…” He takes a moment. “I couldn't- couldn’t exactly go to the hospital, um… and I know where your apartment is, and I… well, I guess I'm not sure.”

“I tried… I wanted to see who you are. If you hadn't stopped me… You shouldn't- you can't trust me.”

“You didn't, though.” The Weaver hesitates then reaches out with his good (well, not _good_ ) arm and puts a hand on Jon’s shoulder. “You're not like that.”

Jon brushes off the Weaver’s hand and gets to his feet, pacing a few steps away. “I _am_. I’m- I can't…” He groans in frustration. “I've almost died three times this month. I almost got Sasha and Tim killed by the Flesh Hive. And I still… I have to know what's going on. There's something… _more_ here. And- and even with everything that's happened, I just can't stop. I almost unmasked you then, and I don't think I would have stopped myself.”

The Weaver shifts, turning slightly to face Jon. “But you didn't actually do it.”

“I wanted to. I would have.”

The Weaver sighs, then winces when that hurts. “You’re a good person, Jon.”

Jon laughs bitterly. “How would you know?”

“I- I don't… Spider… intuition, I guess. Does it matter?”

“Spider intuition,” Jon repeats, raising an eyebrow.

“Well, now that you say it out loud it sounds stupid, but…” The Weaver trails off, shakes his head. “If you were a bad person, you wouldn't care about your friends almost dying. If you were a bad person, you would have unmasked me.”

Jon scoffs. “That's exactly what I was going to do. You were the one who kept me from doing it.”

“And that did keep you from doing it. If you were a bad person, that wouldn't have stopped you.”

Jon starts to object, then thinks better of it. The Weaver isn't wrong, exactly. If nothing else, Jon isn't as bad as some of the villains he writes about. Still, he probably shouldn't be laying all his problems on the Weaver like this. Although with the last month, he's been laying a lot of his problems on other people.

“What's that look for?” the Weaver asks.

“Hm? Oh. Nothing. You just- you just remind me of someone, is all. I think you and Martin would get along quite nicely, with how much both of you end up dealing with my problems.”

“Oh, well, uh, I don't mind it. And- and I’m sure Martin doesn't either. I think it's more than enough in exchange for helping me.”

“It would be rather hard not to. You did break into my apartment.”

The Weaver looks over at the broken window. “Oh. Yeah. Sorry.”

“Well, considering you've saved my life three times in the past month, I think I can forgive you.”

The Weaver tries to laugh again, and it sounds slightly less like he's being strangled. “Thank you.” He pauses, then says, “Do you- do you mind if I stay here? I don't think I can get back to my flat right now.”

“Oh, um, of course, that's- that’s fine. You should probably get some rest.”

The Weaver lays down on his back. “Probably should,” he mumbles.

Neither of them says anything for a while. After a few minutes, Jon notices how even and slow the Weaver’s breathing is. He's asleep, it seems like. Jon almost wants to wake him up, or move him somewhere that isn't the floor. Or he should wake him up to get an interview, collect information. But it's probably better to just let him sleep.

Everything else can wait until tomorrow. 


	11. Chapter 11

(Excerpts from unfinished letters found in the trash can in the office off Martin Blackwood. None of the letters were ever finished, sent, or read.)

(Letter #1)

Jon,

I don't think I could tell you this in person, so I'm writing it down. I'm actually

(Letter #2)

Jon,

I would tell you this in person, but I don't think I can. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before and that I didn't tell you to your face,

(Letter #3)

Jon,

I’m the Weaver. Sorry.

(Letter #4)

Jon, Tim, Sasha,

Sorry I couldn't tell you before or in person, but I’m the

(Letter #5)

Jon,

I think I should have already told Tim and Sasha in person by now, but I don't think I can talk to you because

(Letter #6)

Jon,

I’m the Weaver. I didn't tell you because I thought you'd be angry at me for not telling you and I can't tell you to your face because I've had a crush on you forever and don't want to see you when you start hating me. I'm sorry for

(Letter #7)

Why can't I just tell them? I should have. If I don't, Elias will. I want to tell them. They have a right to know. Why am I too much of a coward to tell them?

\----

It's several days before Jon sees the Weaver again. He snuck out of Jon’s apartment at some point — Jon must have fallen asleep without even realizing it. Jon almost wanted to call him to get more information about Fireball, but he felt that he should give the Weaver some time before trying that. Investigations into the situation with the _Times_ proved to be somewhat successful anyway.

Jon isn't exactly sure what the Weaver meant by saying that the Web had broken a deal, though he doesn't think the Weaver entirely knows either. Still, in the last few days, he and the rest of his colleagues have managed to scrape together a basic understanding of what might have happened.

Agnes Montague — Blaze — turned Desolation after meeting Jude Perry — Fireball. Before that, she'd been fighting against the Entities, the Web in particular. After she turned late in 2016, she’d stopped fighting the Entities at all and moved on to just pure destruction like Fireball. Then, a about a year later, she and Puppeteer fought. There isn't any video proof of Puppeteer actually killing Blaze, but it's not exactly like there's another superhuman that can fill a person with spiders and force her to snap her own neck. That would explain Fireball’s anger toward anyone with spider powers, but it still doesn't explain what the deal she talked about was. Puppeteer isn't aligned with the Web, but it's the closest thing to an explanation they have.

Unless, of course, Puppeteer is a double agent, or Blaze turned Desolation far earlier than she let on. It would make sense, but Jon doesn't have proof, just vague suspicions. That seems to be a common theme with everything he's tried to look into recently.

This particular night, Jon has been working late, talking to one of the store owners who'd seen part of the fight between Fireball and the Weaver. He hadn't particularly expected anything of note, but the interview had been especially disappointing, mostly because the store owner hadn't actually been in the store at the time. It didn’t help that the man had kept rambling about nothing for nearly an hour, late enough that the cabs have stopped coming around often enough for Jon to catch one. It's been over thirty minutes now, and Jon’s gotten tired of waiting.

It's a welcome distraction to hear a familiar voice say “Hello, Jon,” from above him.

Jon looks up and sees the Weaver hanging from a street lamp almost directly above him. He's dangling upside down from a web, holding it with both hands, his legs folded above — or would it be under? — him in an inverted crouch. It looks casual, like he could be upright were it not for his cloak, which is hanging down from where it's fastened around his neck. It's far less casual when he narrowly avoids falling flat on his face when he tries to get down. He attempts to play it off by leaning against the street lamp.

Jon tries and fails to stifle a laugh. “Graceful as ever, I see.”

“I’m still- I’m still recovering from almost getting burned alive,” the Weaver says with no small amount of indignation.

“Well, it certainly looks like your suit is as good as new.”

The Weaver shrugs, still slightly favoring the one shoulder. “Breekon and Hope delivered a new one to my flat at some point, with a note saying I shouldn't destroy this one because they'd rather not have to make a new one so soon. It was there when I got home.” He pauses, then says, “I, um, I read your article about my fight with Fireball. Thanks for- for not mentioning the part where I broke into your apartment.”

“Well, it would be difficult to maintain your positive image if we talked about your habit of breaking and entering.”

“Yeah…” The Weaver rubs the back of his neck, looking at the ground. “Sorry.”

“You don't have to keep apologizing, Weaver. It's fine. Insurance company already fixed it. Although…” Jon smiles at him. “You could make it up to me by doing an interview.”

“Oh! Right. Yeah, um, I can- I can do that.” A car rolls past them, its headlights brightening the yellow and gold on the Weaver’s suit. “Do you- do you want to go somewhere else?”

Jon looks around at the mostly closed stores and the nearly empty streets. “Where would that be?”

The Weaver’s hands start moving in that familiar way as he starts to create something to bring to reality. “Do you trust me?”

Jon's not sure if he's more taken aback by the question or his own answer, immediate and unhesitant. “Yes.”

The Weaver’s hands stop moving and a web materializes in front of him. Except it looks less like a spider’s web and more like… a ladder? Jon blinks, and suddenly the Weaver is gone. Jon looks up and sees him, about halfway up his ladder to the roof. The Weaver waves at him.

“It’s perfectly stable,” he says, and proceeds to almost fall when he rocks too far backwards. “Mostly.”

“Reassuring,” Jon comments drily as he takes hold of the web ladder with one hand.

It's far sturdier than it seems it should be. Cautiously, Jon puts one foot onto the web ladder and puts his weight on it. It holds. Slowly, he makes his way up. The Weaver waits for him, staying close enough to catch him if he falls. It's a surprisingly easy climb up to the roof. When Jon reaches the top, the Weaver helps pull him up onto the roof itself. As soon as he's up, the web ladder vanishes when the Weaver waves a hand.

“This is… nice,” Jon says, looking out over the city.

The building they're on is maybe three stories tall, about the same height as most of the buildings around them. The air seems clearer and the contrast of the lights and the dark seems greater, thousands of twinkling pinpricks against the blanket of night. Headlights pass by on the street below, illuminating the smooth asphalt and the few people still out at this hour. Jon sits at the very edge of the roof, legs dangling down. It feels different up here. They're not above it all — hell, his office in the _Times_ is higher up — but it certainly feels like they are.

“It is nice.” The Weaver sits on the edge of the roof next to Jon. “I like being up here.” He looks over at a nearby roof. “Except when I’m nearly getting killed by Fireball.”

Jon looks over at that roof and can see the darkened scorch marks on the concrete. “Yes, I would- I would think so.”

They're both silent for a while. The Weaver twines a corner of his cloak between his fingers. Jon takes his phone out of his pocket and turns on an audio recorder. It's not exactly preferable, but it should work.

Jon clears his throat. “Ready to begin?”

“Oh! Right, yeah. Um, yes.”

“Alright. Interview of the Weaver on eighteenth October, 2018.” Jon has to take a second to think of a starting question. “When did your powers first manifest?”

The Weaver taps his fingers on the edge of the roof. “It's been… um, since the end of August, so… a little over six weeks now.”

“And what happened, exactly?”

“I started… feeling things, I guess. A couple weeks before then, actually. I could tell things were there even though I couldn't see them, I could feel when things moved around me. I finally realized what I was feeling were the webs on the day Breekon and Hope showed up. They knocked on my door, gave me the suit, and left. It was… weird, to say the least. I thought there would be more to it than that. I mean, I guess all they do is make the suits and deliver them, but I expected there to be more. I asked them a couple questions and they answered, but they didn't give me any instructions or anything. Just told me I was a superhuman and- and that was it.”

“They didn't try to put you into contact with… anyone?” What Jon really wants to ask is about the Web, but that feels a little too… impolite.

“No. No, they just left. I- I tried to look for someone else, but it's not exactly like superhumans are approachable. Never had anyone attack me out of nowhere like Fireball, but it's… it's confusing. I don't really know what I'm doing.” He laughs. “What was it I said to you? That I'm just trying to help?”

“Yes, that was- that was what you said.”

“And I am, I think. Trying to help. Except I don't know how much of what I'm doing is for that, or how much is for…” The Weaver sighs, takes a moment to collect himself. “I don't like being myself. The me that isn't the Weaver. It feels so much better to be like this. I’m not weak like I am, and I'm not a coward like I am, and I'm not a burden like I am. I can do things like this, I can be someone.”

“You’re not… Surely you're the same person no matter if you're wearing the mask. The… other you is still the person that wants to help people, the person who’s saved my life more times than I really care to think of,” Jon says.

“Am I?” The Weaver shakes his head. “I don't know. I can't… When I’m not the Weaver… I haven't been there for my friends when they needed me. I mean, I have been, but, well…” He groans in frustration. “It's hard to- hard to explain.”

“It’s alright; we have plenty of time. It's not like anyone’s going to disturb us up here.” Unless, of course, Fireball comes back, but Jon doesn't think he should mention that.

“Yeah.” The Weaver looks out across the city for a moment before continuing. “When I'm… the other me, I don't ever feel like I can do anything. Something… bad happened the other day, and I… I couldn't do anything. Someone… someone knows who I am and might expose me and I- and I couldn't do anything about it. But if it had been this me, if it had been the Weaver, then maybe… I don't know. I guess it's not much better like this, I mean, I don't nearly get killed by Fireball at my day job, I guess. Usually. Less than you do.”

Jon makes a noise that's somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. “Well, we don't exactly have the safest job in Scion City. Hard to avoid superhumans when you're supposed to be investigating them.

The Weaver doesn't respond directly. “I wanted to tell my friends who I am. I- I still do, and I… I don't know if I can. I tell myself it's because it will put them in danger, or- or because they'd hate me for lying, and that's true, but I don't… I think I just like not being myself. They deserve to know who I am, and I just- I just can't tell them.”

“You don't have to,” Jon says.

The Weaver sighs again, one hand pressed against his brow. “I know. I- I just… I’m scared that… It feels so good to be like this, and I know- I know that's what the Entities do. It's what they want. It's like Mike Crew, like Agnes Montague. And I’m scared that I'm… I don't want to be like them, but I can't just be _me_ anymore. I am the Weaver, and I like being the Weaver, but that's… I don't want to feel that. I don't want to be like them, like everyone who’s hurt so many people.”

Jon hesitates, then reaches out and puts a hand on the Weaver’s knee. “You’re not.”

The Weaver leans back, supporting himself with his hands, looking up at the sky. “I could be. This is what they're like. All of them, they-”

Jon interrupts him, taking his hand away to turn himself more toward the Weaver. “You’re not,” he insists. “You still want to help people. You still want to be good. What was- When you came to my apartment, you told me that if I was a bad person, I wouldn't care. If I'm not a bad person, then you can't be either.”

The Weaver stares at him for a second. “You’re… yeah, well… I can't exactly say you’re wrong.” Jon can hear the smile in his voice. “Thank you, Jon.”

“You’re a good person, Weaver. You've helped- you've _saved_ a lot of people, no matter whether you’re the Weaver, or… whoever you are without the mask.” Jon tries to smile in that way that Tim does, but he's fairly sure he can't pull it off. “And the Weaver isn't invincible either, seeing how you-”

The Weaver laughs, straightening back up again. “Got my ass kicked by Fireball?”

“Well, that's one way to put it.” Jon sighs and changes his tone. “You saved a lot of people by luring her away. You _are_ helping people, Weaver. That doesn't change, even when you're not wearing the mask.”

“Thank you.” The Weaver puts his hand on top of Jon’s. “That's… It’s nice to have someone I can… It’s easier to be the Weaver, but it's hard to tell who I can trust, who I can rely on. It's good to have you.”

Jon doesn't know exactly how to respond. It's not that he's particularly surprised at the Weaver’s admission — the Weaver came to Jon when he was injured, after all — but that more at his own feelings about the matter. He trusts the Weaver too. Of course he does, the Weaver’s saved his life enough times, but it's more than just that. He thinks of the Weaver as a friend. It's ridiculous; he doesn't know who the Weaver is, he's only known him for a month, he's supposed to stay detached from the superhumans he writes about. But that feeling is there all the same, that warmth and comfort he feels with Martin and Tim and Sasha. Although it's slightly… different, somehow. Slightly… more.

Jon realizes that he hasn't actually said anything in reply. “Yes, I- I think-” He clears his throat and recollects himself. “It's good to have you around, too. To- to make sure that none of us reporters get ourselves into too much trouble.”

“Well, I need something to do aside from fight supervillains. Although the two seem to… intersect a bit.”

Jon hums in response, then notices that his phone is still recording. “Hm. I suppose I probably won't be able to use most of this in the article.”

The Weaver glances down at the phone. “Yeah, probably- probably not. Is there anything else you need?”

“Unless you can find Fireball to come for an interview, there's nothing in particular.” Jon shuts off the recorder and puts his phone back into his pocket.

“Don't think I can manage that.” The Weaver stands up and offers a hand to Jon.

Jon takes the Weaver’s hand and uses it to help himself get to his feet. “Never hurts to try.”

Distantly, colored lights flash and sirens sound. “I should… probably get going,” the Weaver says.

Jon gestures at the street below. “If you wouldn't mind.”

“Oh! Right.” The Weaver makes the motions with his hands and forms the web ladder again. “Will you-”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon says. “You go help some people.”

The Weaver’s face isn't visible under the mask as he nods and creates a web to leave, but Jon can tell he's smiling. 


	12. Chapter 12

Martin’s night job may be more exciting than his day job, but that doesn't mean he's not busy with his work for the _Times_. One of the only positives about his fight with Fireball was that she hadn't done anything to his face, so he's managed to hide everything and play it off as being tired. Fireball hadn't been able to really burn him under the suit, and he’d explained the redness as being a bad allergic reaction to something or other. He’s been getting better since then, but he's been hurting, and it's been inconvenient to try and not show it. It doesn't help that he's trying to figure out why Fireball attacked him and what she meant by that deal. It might be nothing, but Martin can't be sure. And he needs to figure it out. She seems to have gone back to her normal villain routine, having blown up an entire car dealership the day before, but if she realizes Martin’s alive, she could come after him again. He knows there's something bigger going on here. They all do.

“There has to be something in the older files,” Jon says the next morning as the four of them once again sit at the main table. “Something just seems-”

“Wrong?” Tim suggests, not looking up from his computer. “Yeah. I think we’re all feeling it, Jon. Not exactly anything we can do about it.”

“Gertrude must have hidden other papers,” Jon says. “If she has something about any of this-”

“Then it's too well hidden for us to find,” Sasha says. “All we can do is watch the situation as it develops.”

“You didn’t- Did you find something else, Jon?” Martin asks. “You seem kind of… on edge.”

Jon sighs. “I… maybe.”

The other three look up from their work. As much as Martin doesn't want to encourage Jon driving himself crazy over Gertrude again, he needs to find out why Fireball wants to kill him. She's still out there. And even though it would be easy to dismiss it as blind revenge that just… doesn't seem right.

“Alright, spit it out,” Tim says.

“I was reading through everything we have on Blaze. It was all rather useless to the investigation; no new information that we could really use. But then I went through some of the old files we have on her death,” Jon says.

“Yeah, Puppeteer, right?” Sasha shudders. “Creepy.”

“Yes. There was a… Hold on.” Jon rifles through some of the papers in front of him. “There was a note on one of them, cross-referencing it to a file on Puppeteer. I found the file, and- Yes, here it is.”

Jon picks up a piece of paper and puts it in the center of the table. Even though he can't quite make out what's written on it, he can immediately identify the handwriting. Gertrude.

“It’s notes for the first profile article about Puppeteer when she appeared back in 2008. Gertrude calls her a Web agent multiple times,” Jon says, pointing out different points in the note than Martin can't read.

“So?” Tim says. “She just wrote it down wrong, or made an assumption or something. Puppeteer’s not Web.”

“Gertrude didn't write things down wrong,” Jon says.

Sasha picks the paper up and reads through it. “Why would she never mention it again? Why just leave it if she thought Puppeteer was with the Web?”

“That- it doesn't make any sense,” Martin says. “How could… Someone else would have had to realize by now.”

“They didn't for Lightning.” Jon takes the paper back when Sasha hands it to him. “And it would explain the deal that Fireball was talking about.”

“Nope!” Tim leans forward to snatch the note out of Jon’s hand and put it back onto the table. “That's _not_ what this is. Here's an explanation: senile old lady, crazy woman made of fire, upstanding hero who just so happens to have creepy spider powers. This isn't a conspiracy, Jon.”

“And why not?” Jon snaps. “It's the only explanation that makes sense.”

“No, it's not. Not everyone has to be secretly a double agent working for the big evil powers that be.”

“Tim-” Sasha tries to interject.

“No!” Tim stands from his chair, slamming his hands on the table. “I’m tired of this bullshit! We don't need to keep prodding into all this garbage. We almost _died_ because Jon couldn't stop poking into things. What's all this for? Huh? To prove that every fucking person in this city is evil? Why do we need to do that?”

“We’re _journalists_ , Tim,” Jon says. “This is what we do.”

Martin doesn't really want to get into the argument, but he does anyway. “If there's- if there is something going on here, we need to find out what it is. Fireball is still out there, and she's still dangerous. If it means-”

“What? If it means getting killed by the Eye because we know too much? If it means not being able to trust anyone because, oh no, looks like everyone’s with the Entities?”

Just as it seems the argument is going to really kick off, a new voice speaks. “Oh, look at the four of you arguing again.”

The four of them in question all turn to look at the voice. There's a Distortion door on the side of Jon’s office. Looking out of it is Helen, grinning widely. Martin's not entirely sure if her face can make another expression.

“Helen, what the hell?” Sasha says. “Why-”

“Am I here?” Helen steps out from the door, revealing her whole body and both of her twisted hands. “I want to give you some advice.”

Jon snorts. “Seems to be what both of you like to do these days.”

“Hang on, didn't you try to feed us to Jane Prentiss?” Tim says, visibly bristling.

“I only want to help you,” Helen insists. “But if you don't want me here…”

“No!” Martin says, getting to his feet. “I- you- Tell us why you're here. Please.”

“You're missing something very obvious.” Helen gives a pointed look to Jon, then to Martin.

Martin’s mind goes immediately to the Weaver. Is Helen going to tell them? If Michael knows, then it stands to reason that Helen does, and maybe she wants to tell them now, and if that happens… Martin wants to say something, but he's frozen.

Tim shakes his head. “God, we don't have time for this.”

Sasha looks up at Helen, more unfazed than any of the rest of them. “What does that even mean?”

Helen tilts her head. “You haven't looked everywhere yet. I’d suggest that you check more closely.”

She goes to open her door again, but Jon calls after her. “Wait. Why are you helping us? You and Michael?”

Helen… Martin’s not sure if it can be classified as shrugging, necessarily, but it's something close to it. “I’m… not sure. I would say that you're nicer than some of the others, but, well…” She glances at Jon. “I’m not sure that's true. As for Michael… he’s never quite been able to shake being a journalist.”

“Doesn't stop him from trying to kill us with a worm lady,” Tim mutters.

“Good luck, journalists,” Helen says, actually sounding sincere. “Sometimes you do find things where you most suspect them.”

Then she leaves through her door, taking it with her as it closes. Tim sits back down in his chair with a heavy sigh. Sasha shakes her head and goes back to her work. Jon and Martin both look at each other, then toward Jon’s office.

“What-” Martin starts.

“Gertrude’s notes,” Jon says, walking briskly over to his office and pulling open his door. “It has to be. There must be some we haven't found.”

Martin follows. “In your office? How would-”

As soon as he walks through the door, he realizes exactly what Helen meant. Inadvertently, he'd been extending his senses. He can feel everything in Jon’s office. From the desk to the filing cabinets to the floorboards. Two floorboards specifically, ones behind the desk that are just barely out of line with the others around them.

“This was Gertrude’s old office.” Jon rifles through some of the filing cabinets. “If she hid something else…”

Martin doesn't respond. He crosses over to the other side of the desk. Now that he sees them, those two floorboards are slightly off color from the rest.

“Hey, Jon?” he says.

“Hm?” Jon walks behind the desk and looks down at the floor. “What is it?”

“Look.” Martin points at the floorboards.

“Martin, I don't-” Jon bends closer and realization crosses his face. “Ah.”

Martin tries to pry up the floorboards. It takes a couple attempts, but he does manage to pull them up. There's a space underneath them. In that space: papers. Dozens of papers, all covered in those familiar loops that form Gertrude’s handwriting. Neither Martin or Jon makes a move to touch them. It doesn't seem like they should be there. Like they shouldn’t be real.

“‘Sometimes you do find things where you most suspect them,’” Jon breathes, reaching out as if he wants to touch the papers but isn't sure if he can.

“Sasha! Tim!” Martin calls, and the two of them come into the office.

Sasha goes over and picks the papers up, clearing space on Jon’s desk to set them back down onto it. “This must be what Helen meant.”

Tim scoffs. “No shit.”

Despite his best attempt to seem disinterested, Tim leans over Jon’s desk with the other three to read the papers. Jon spreads them out from the pile, though it doesn't look like there's much discernible order. Many look like profiles, information on superhumans that must have never made it into official files. But there's a few that are… different. There's no label at the top, no clear organization. As Martin reads the first line, he realizes that this has to be what they're looking for.

Jon appears to have noticed the same paper. “‘If you’re reading this, I have been murdered,’” he reads aloud.

“That’s… one way to start a note,” Sasha says, looking attentively at Jon.

Jon’s eyes dart across the page as he reads it. “This…”

“Out loud, Jon,” Tim says, rolling his eyes.

“Oh. Right.” Jon clears his throat and begins to read. “‘If anyone has found this, then I am no longer working in this office, which means that Elias has killed me.’”

Martin tries and fails to process the words. “Wait, wha-”

Jon continues reading. “‘The conspiracy that I have been investigating runs deep in the foundation of Scion City. I am the most knowledgeable, aside from perhaps Elias himself, yet I do not currently know who or what has orchestrated the situation, apart from the fact that they are known as the Architect.’”

Tim and Sasha both say something, but Jon keeps reading.

“‘If you are reading this, I must assume that you do not yet understand what is really happening in Scion City. You likely think that the Entities are human, or something like it. You likely think that only the superhumans that can be classified as ‘evil’ are aligned with them. I have discovered that both of these assumptions are false on a fundamental level, and I believe I may be a target because of it. For a decade and a half, the powers that be in Scion City have been lying to the public.

“‘Perhaps the most significant thing I have found in my investigations is the fact that, strictly speaking, the Entities do not exist.’”

“Wait,” Sasha says. “That doesn't- that doesn't make any sense.”

Jon shakes his head and reads on. “‘The Entities are not people. There are no superhumans by those names and there never have been. The Entities are only the collective terms for superhumans with their respective power sets. The Entities have never been people, but rather groups of individuals that are used to create equilibrium within Scion City.’”

“Equilibrium,” Martin repeats. “That's what Mike Crew said Fairchild wanted.”

“‘The general opinion on the Entities is that only superhumans with more destructive inclinations are aligned with them. In addition to the Entities not being people in the first place, the idea that only evil people are allied with them is false. Every person in Scion City that has developed supernatural powers is a part of the Entities. The ones widely considered ‘good,’ those who are believed to not be sided with the Entities, still have contact with their collective. Those considered to not be Entity aligned are simply being used to balance those with more destructive urges and have just as much contact with their Entity as their counterparts. They are not heroes as the public seems to believe, and do not care about the people of Scion City. They only exist to create equilibrium and serve their Entity. All superhumans are ‘in on it,’ so to speak. None of them are innocent. All of them are culpable for the destruction and death that plague this city. Every superhuman has the deaths of all the people killed by the Entities on their hands.’”

Martin knows that's not true. It can't be true. He's not with the Web, or any of the Entities. He's not working to create ‘equilibrium,’ whatever the hell that means, he's trying to save people. This can't be right. Unless… unless he's being used. He might not be evil, but the Entities (or lack thereof) could be using him to do whatever they want. Maybe he's just been doing what they want all along without even realizing.

“‘I do not know exactly why the superhumans want to work for equilibrium, or the exact connotations of what this equilibrium is, aside from the fact that it is a balance between what is perceived as good and evil. I know that all instances of conflict between superhumans are manufactured, at least to some degree. There is some dissension between superhumans under different Entities, but it seems to be squabbles between individuals and not between hero and villain. All of the superhumans aim to keep the delicate balance between ‘good’ and ‘evil’ in Scion City under the orders of the Architect. I would like to find more about the identity of this Architect, but I believe that I will be unable to.

“‘I aim to publish an exposeé tomorrow. Elias may kill me before I have the chance.’”

Jon falls silent, the paper read all the way through. No one else says a word. Martin’s mind is spinning. It can't be right, he knows it can't, but it makes so much _sense_. Why Mike Crew didn't make Lightning into another Sky Blue. Why Gertrude referred to Puppeteer as part of the Web. The deal Fireball talked about. Why she tried to kill Martin because of it.

“She… she could have got it wrong,” Tim says, though even he doesn't sound entirely convinced. Gertrude didn't get things wrong.

Jon shakes his head. “It’s- it’s, um…” he stutters, “it’s dated 14th March, 2015. The- the day before Gertrude… the day before she died.”

“And if- and if she was going to publish it, then- then that would be enough reason to… to kill her,” Martin says.

“It makes sense,” Sasha says. “Fireball, Puppeteer, the Weaver, Lightning…”

“Hellhound,” Jon says. “If Shroud is with the Entities too, then…”

“It makes sense that he didn't actually kill it,” Martin finishes, staring straight ahead, his own voice sounding distant and muted.

“Goddammit,” Tim mutters, putting his hands on his head and walking out of the office.

“Elias didn't- Did he really kill Gertrude?” Sasha says.

She doesn't get an answer. Martin has one, but he can't say it. The Eye murdered Gertrude. Elias knows who Martin is. The only way for him to know that… Elias has to be superhuman. He has to be working for the Eye. That's the only way he could know, and if he's working with the Entities, then he'd want to keep what Gertrude found out quiet.

“I… I don't know.” Jon is still staring at the paper, reading it over and over again. “We can't… we can't trust him. We can't trust anyone. They've all been…” He sighs, shakes his head. “Even the Weaver. He's been lying, and I never… I should have…”

Martin wants to tell him. Wants to say right there that he never lied, that Jon can trust him. Martin’s never had contact with the Web, or any of the Entities. The Weaver isn't the same as the rest of them, somehow. But he can't. He can't say that. He knows what will happen if he does.

Sasha says something else, something that Martin doesn't even hear. He finds himself pushing past Jon and Sasha, leaving the office, but he's not really aware of what he's doing. He's not really aware of anything at the moment. All he can feel is a crushing sensation in his chest, constricting him, stopping him from breathing. He desperately doesn't want to be Martin right now. But he can't be the Weaver either.

Everything is _wrong_ right now. What was in Gertrude’s notes… that couldn't be right, could it? But it doesn't seem like it can be wrong. It all makes sense. If it is true, then everything that Martin knows about Scion City is wrong. The Entities, the superhumans, Elias, the Architect (whatever the hell that is), Gertrude’s death, equilibrium… It’s too much. All of it is too much.

Now more than ever, Martin doesn't want to be any version of himself. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I know I've already put these in here like two or three times, but: Everyone that is reading this, go check out koiboii on tumblr and cryptidkoi on Instagram, because now there is New Art (of chapter eleven!) and it is Very Very Good! I will continue putting these advertisements in here until y'all go look at that good good art and give my friend validation so he'll have to accept how good his art is, and that IS a threat.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I'll have a consistent update schedule!" I told myself when I started writing this. 
> 
> That was a lie.

Jon has always disliked some aspects of his job, but he's never found that he hated it more than he does right now. He's spent the last two weeks trying to find any way to discredit Gertrude’s claims, some naïve part of him hoping that she somehow got it wrong, but he's found nothing but evidence supporting them. It seems that she was right. It seems that the Weaver lied to Jon, and that the first new person Jon has learned to trust over the past few years has turned out to work for the forces that have been actively trying to kill him. Even worse, any research into who or what the Architect is has led to nothing. Jon would look into it more, but on top of it all, he's worried about being murdered by his boss if he goes too far.

It's been a long couple of months.

None of the others have been taking it very well either. Tim has stopped working and is angrier than usual, mostly poring over old records about the Stranger. He's taken the fact that everyone killed by superhuman conflicts died for manufactured reasons particularly badly, considering what happened to his brother. Sasha is less withdrawn and she's the only one actually publishing at the moment, but she hasn't been taking it well either. She's always been the one best able to manage crises, but the thought that their own boss might murder them all is a bit much, even for her. It doesn't help that she's been trying to keep the other three from completely falling apart, mostly to no avail.

As for Martin…

Jon’s never seen Martin like this. Even after the Flesh Hive attack, Martin wasn't like this. He'd been full of nervous energy, hovering over Jon and Tim when they refused to go to the hospital, visiting Sasha multiple times per day as she recovered, making more tea than Jon thought was humanly possible. Now he’s… quiet. Reserved. He's barely talking. When he does, it's twitchy and anxious, as if he's looking for a way to escape. He's brushed off any questions with an “I’m fine.” He seems to want to help, but he's dealing with his own problems. They all are.

The only positive is that Elias doesn't seem to have noticed, or at least hasn't tried to kill them all. Jon wants to think that maybe he doesn't know, but he's not that stupid. After all, it was the Eye that murdered Gertrude. It's not like there's any other superhuman that could burn out someone’s eyes and completely dissolve their brain without damaging the skull. And considering the Eye, apparently, does not actually exist, and Gertrude seemed sure it was Elias that would kill her… Those with the Eye know things they couldn't otherwise. It stands to reason that Elias knows what they found and doesn't intend to do anything, at least for the moment. Or until one of them decides to try and publish what they found.

“You have to talk to Martin,” Sasha says one morning, leaning against the doorframe of Jon’s office.

Jon doesn't look up from his ninth readthrough of Gertrude’s papers. “I doubt I’d be able to help. Have you tried talking to him?”

Sasha huffs and walks up to the desk. “I have, Jon. I've been talking to Martin, and I’ve been talking to Tim, and I’ve been talking to you. I know what's wrong with Tim, and I know damn well what's wrong with you, but Martin isn't telling me anything. You need to talk to him, for his good and for yours.”

Jon looks up at her, frowning. “He hasn't said anything to me either. I don't know what-”

“I don't know either, Jon,” Sasha interrupts. “But you should try. He might open up to you. At least you'd be doing something other than muttering to yourself about Gertrude. You need to get out of your office.”

Jon sighs and pushes up his glasses. “Fine.”

Martin is sitting at his desk when Jon walks into his office. He doesn't seem to notice for a second, just continuing to type something on his laptop. After a moment, his head snaps up, a startled expression across his face.

“Oh! Um- hi- hi, Jon. Did you- do you need something?”

Jon shuts the door. “I… maybe. I, um, I wanted to know… how you're doing.”

“Oh, I’m- I’m fine.”

“I don't think any of us are fine, Martin.” Jon sits down in the chair in front of the desk.

Martin sighs and closes his laptop. “I know. Tim-”

“Is taking it badly, yes,” Jon says. “And you don't seem to be doing much better.”

“Hey, at least I haven't locked myself in my office,” Martin says defensively, then winces. “I’m… Sorry, I don't mean to- I’m just- I’m just…”

“I know. We’re all… on edge.”

“Considering we could be violently killed by the Eye? Yeah.” Martin laughs bitterly, then sobers and looks at Jon. “And how are- how are you doing? I know you and the Weaver…”

Jon tenses. “I’m- it's- I don't know. I thought…” He sighs. “It doesn't matter.”

“Did he- Were you… friends?”

Jon looks down at the desk, not wanting to make eye contact. “I… I thought so. But we couldn't be, really, could we?”

“Maybe he's- maybe he's not like the rest of them.”

Jon wants that to be true. He doesn't want to be wrong about the Weaver. But he is. He can't afford to think otherwise. All of the superhumans are with the Entities, _are_ the Entities. As much as Jon doesn't want that to be true, it has to be. The Web is about manipulation as much as spiders.

Jon shakes his head. “We can't… we can't trust anyone else, Martin. The only people the four of us can trust are each other.”

“Yeah.” Martin taps one hand against his desk in a tic he seems to have picked up in the last two weeks. “I guess- I guess you're right.”

Jon wants to change the subject, but he's not sure what to change the subject to. He finally settles with, “You haven't seen anything new about Fireball, have you?”

Martin stops tapping, looking slightly more tense. “Um, no, I- I haven't. I… haven't really been looking, to be honest. I've been…” He frowns. “I’m not sure what I've been doing, actually. It's hard to- hard to really concentrate on anything anymore, you know?”

“Hm,” Jon says, since he doesn't know. He's found it hard to _not_ concentrate on things. Right now, he’s itching to go back to his desk, to look over Gertrude’s papers, find something, anything, they might have missed. “You could… take some time off, if you wanted to.”

“No, I don't- I don't think that would be a good idea. Elias…” Martin trails off, not wanting to finish the thought.

“Yes, maybe that's for best.”

They both sit in silence. The clock on Martin’s wall ticks louder than it ever has before. Jon can't think of anything to say. He needs to say something.

“Maybe… we should all go out for- for lunch, uh, sometime,” he finally stutters out, statement sounding more like a question by the end of it.

“Oh, um, yeah, that would be- that would be nice.” Martin smiles, and it only looks a little forced. “I think it would do us all some good to get out of here.”

Jon wants to argue. He wants to say that it wouldn't do him good. He needs to stay here, needs to find out more about what Gertrude knew. He needs to know, needs to learn. He can't be distracted, he can't waste time with his associates when he has work to do.

Except he can. He can go spend time with his friends to make sure they're all doing alright after everything. That's more important than obsessing over the same papers he's had for two weeks.

So why doesn't it feel like it? Why can Jon not stop working? He _knows_ now, he understands, and he almost wishes that he didn't. What good has it done? What good has any of it done? All he's done is hurt his friends _again_ because he couldn't stop obsessing. Now Tim’s having another meltdown, Martin's completely stopped being able to deal with any of it, Sasha’s falling apart trying to keep the rest of them together… And why is learning the only thing Jon can think of? Why is it gnawing on his mind even now?

Jon realizes with a jolt that he never said anything back to Martin. “I… yes, it would… it would be good to- to get out. Would, um, would Thursday work for you?”

Martin laughs, though Jon isn't sure exactly why. “Yeah, my evenings are… clear, now.”

Jon tries his best to smile. “Good. Um, that's- that's good. I’ll talk to-”

Jon is interrupted as the office door slams open. Tim stomps in, looking cross as he has been for the past two weeks. Jon stands up from the chair.

“Are you- are you okay, Tim?” Martin asks, getting up from his desk.

Tim scoffs. “Doing fine. Great, actually. It feels awesome to continue being here even when Elias could decide to kill us at any moment.”

Jon takes a moment to speak, forcing himself not to make any sort of remark to give Tim a reason to start an argument. “Do you need something?”

“Oh, there's a few things. For my boss not to be a superhuman murderer that could burn my brain out of my skull by looking at me, for everyone in this city to not be a fucking evil psychopath that murders innocent people for fun, maybe to be able to just quit my goddamned job.” Tim shakes his head, frowning deeply, before he seems to remember what he originally came to the office for. “Fireball’s been seen fighting Puppeteer down near the police station. Thought you might want to know.”

With that, he walks back out of the office and slams the door behind him.

Jon takes a second to process, then goes to open the door. He needs to go see this, for multiple reasons. On one hand, he needs to get footage and see what's going on so he can actually get some work done, maybe publish something. On the other, this would be a good opportunity to try and understand what's really happening, why any of the superhumans are fighting, maybe to confront Puppeteer about being with the Web if he has the chance.

“Jon,” Martin says.

Jon turns back around to look at him. “What?”

“Fireball is- She’s dangerous. And Puppeteer, she's just as bad as the rest of them if she's really with the Web. I don't- I don't want you getting hurt.”

“I- I know. I’ll try to- I’ll try my best to stay safe.”

Martin nods. “Just be careful, Jon. Please.”

Jon smiles at him reassuringly as he opens the door to leave. “I always am.” 


	14. Chapter 14

For once, Martin doesn't feel better being the Weaver. It had been bad enough to have to sneak out of the _Times_ office and back to his flat to get his suit from where it's been gathering dust for the last two weeks, and everything they learned from Gertrude’s papers just magnifies that awful feeling. Martin knows he's never been contacted by anyone to become part of the Web, but the thought he was doing its bidding all along makes him want to stop being the Weaver forever. He can't, though, because he has to go make sure no one gets killed by either Fireball or Puppeteer. Including Jon. Even if Jon doesn't trust the Weaver anymore. 

It's easy enough to find where Fireball is. In the daylight it's slightly harder to see the brightness of her flames, but the huge column of smoke rising in the air is enough of a clue. It makes Martin uneasy to walk on his webs between buildings in the daytime. He can hear people on the streets below, see them pointing up at him, see some cameras and phones they're holding. He wonders if they'll send videos to the _Times_. He wonders if it would be Tim that would sort through them like he usually does, or if that would be passed on to Sasha. Or to Jon. That thought alone is enough to make Martin hurry more.

As Martin gets closer to the fight, he feels his breath start catching, panic rising up in his chest. He can't go near Fireball again. She’ll kill him. He’ll die the most painful death he can think of, burning alive, his skin melting off, the unimaginable heat scorching him through his bones. He can't do this. He can't do it. He can feel the pain from the last time, the rough agony through his entire body, the broken ribs stealing his breath before he could draw it in, the addled confusion clouding everything but the certainty that he was going to die. He can't do this again. He can't.

But he has to. When Puppeteer fought with Blaze, they'd nearly destroyed half the city. Dozens of people had died in the fires. And with what Gertrude said in her notes, Puppeteer isn't going to make special efforts to stop that from happening again. And Fireball… With how she’d been with Martin, the destruction she could cause while facing Agnes’s actual killer… Someone needs to be there to help. Someone who cares. Martin might be the only one.

Plus Jon’s probably going to blunder in at the absolute wrong moment and nearly get himself killed again.

Martin stops on top of a building, some office building maybe five stories tall, one of the few buildings in the vicinity that's not on fire. It's slightly surprising to Martin that the first superhuman he sees is Puppeteer and not Fireball. Fireball is close, judging by the heat Martin can distantly feel through the webs (burning them all out, burning him with them, he's going to die), but he's not sure of exactly where she is, what with all the buildings on fire. The small bank that Martin can never remember the name of, the office for one of the insurance agencies, one of the law firms, a laundromat, a convenience store, a family-owned grocer — all of them are burning. The fire department is already here, plus a good number of police officers, and they seem to be handling the fires. They can't do anything against Fireball herself. That's up to Martin. And to Puppeteer.

Puppeteer is standing atop the burning law firm building, crouching on the edge, scanning the streets. She's one of the few superhumans no one knows the true identity of, one of the few who’s kept it a secret for a decade. It's impossible to make out any of her features except for her vague height and build, though even that is murky. Her entire body is covered in a loose, flowing suit, cobwebs clinging to it, her edges made blurry and indistinct. It's hard to tell if she's wearing a mask, with how covered in webs her face is. There are holes ripped in the webs where her eyes are, enough for her to see out of but not enough to see her face underneath. Even from the distance he's at, Martin can see the tiny dark shapes of the spiders that crawl over Puppeteer’s body. She seems remarkably unscathed for someone currently fighting a Desolation agent.

Martin freezes for a second as he looks back down at the burning buildings, unsure of what to do. Even without knowing that Puppeteer is a heartless Web ally who’s really as bad as all the supervillains, she's just plain creepy. Martin doesn't mind spiders, in theory, but Puppeteer has always been unnerving to him. The mind control powers she has really don't help.

Then Martin feels… something. It's not corporeal, and it's not through the webs, it's… something else. Something brushing against the edge of his consciousness, slow and trailing. Then it becomes more distinct, more sharp, wrapping around him tightly. He looks back up at Puppeteer. He doesn't want to look back up at Puppeteer. He doesn't look back up at Puppeteer. She jumps down from her building, creating a few webs along the way to skip off of, then lands a few feet away from Martin, all in the space of three seconds. He doesn't stop looking at her. He wants to look away.

“You’re not us,” she says, the cobwebs over her face stretching and the spiders there skittering away in alarm. “Who are you?”

Martin wants to answer, wants to tell her everything. Who he is, what he knows, everything he's learned. Except he doesn't. He doesn't want to do that but he's going to anyway because he can feel that _thing_ tightening around his mind, forcing him-

Then Martin feels the heat. Everything around him has been warm since he approached the fires, but this is different. Familiar and terrifying. The webs that stretch the farthest beginning to burn away. Fireball. He can't talk right now. He can't do anything right now. He has to get out of here, needs to get far away before she sees him. Then whatever is holding him in place snaps and he rips himself out of Puppeteer’s control.

And he turns and sees Fireball, rising from the burning laundromat, an impossibly bright figure against the smoke filling the air. She's even more melted than when Martin fought her, body more a vague suggestion of human shape than an actual person. Even if it's hard to distinguish the parts of her face, it’s filled with fury greater than any Martin’s ever seen. Her eyes slide — quite literally moving position in her face — from Martin to Puppeteer. Martin can feel Fireball’s rage, stretching down to burn him even when she's too far away to do so. The three of them stare, locked in a standoff, waiting for the other side to make the first move.

In that moment, Martin knows with a terrible certainty that someone’s not going to be making it out of this alive.

In the end, it's Puppeteer that blinks first. She lifts a hand and draws it a sharp line. Martin sees something wrap itself around a portion of Fireball that might be her leg. A web. Martin doesn't know how, since his own webs near Fireball are burned away. He knew Puppeteer is stronger than him, but this is _much_ stronger. Fireball doesn't seem to feel it, likely because she can't feel anything in this state, and dives forward. The web tightens around her leg as she moves and with a sickening sound that Martin doesn't hear so much as imagine, severs the entire thing.

Fireball does notice that. It doesn't seem to hurt so much as inconvenience. She does an agile somersault midair and catches the part of her that was taken off, molding it back into her body as soon as she touches it. She keeps going, flying down at Martin and Puppeteer as if she hadn't just had a limb completely cut off. Martin braces himself, ready to dodge out of the way as soon as Fireball is close enough. But that moment never comes.

A new web appears a few feet in front of Martin and Puppeteer, one that Fireball again doesn't notice until it’s too late. She tries to get above it, but it still slices into her, narrowly avoiding cutting her in half before she crashes into the roof a ways away from her intended course. Martin feels a moment of relief, one that quickly vanishes as Puppeteer runs past Martin. As she moves, Martin feels her influence tighten around him again. His limbs move without his permission, propelling him forward after her toward the edge of the building. Past the edge of the building. Puppeteer can't stop Martin’s scream of terror as he plummets, not in control of any part of him, not able to do anything but scream. The ground seems both too far away and too close, and he can do nothing to stop himself from falling.

Then he feels himself reaching out, grabbing hold of a web he didn't even know was there. He swings himself forward and crashes through one of the office building’s windows on the third floor, momentum sending him flying into a set of cubicles, smashing them in the process. Puppeteer releases him, landing smoothly on the floor in front of the window. Martin gets to his feet, reaching out with his senses to find out where Fireball is. He can feel the burning hole in his webs where Fireball is on the roof, trying to form herself back together. It won't take long. There isn't much time.

At first, Martin isn't sure why Puppeteer threw them into this building. Even if Puppeteer doesn't care about damages, about potentially harming people, fighting Fireball in a confined area is a tactically worse decision. There's fewer places to run away to, more things to collapse on top of them to stop their escape. It's better to fight her out in the open.

And then Martin sees the people emerging from various places in the room, coming out from hiding places under desks, opening the doors of private offices, and he understands exactly what Puppeteer is doing.

It was hard to miss Puppeteer’s fight with Blaze the year before, the epic battle spanning a quarter of the city, burning down dozens of buildings and killing far too many people. There's plenty of evidence — from eyewitness accounts to videos to photos of the aftermath — to show the fight. Countless people had seen Blaze and Puppeteer locked in combat in the air above. That's _all_ that anybody saw. Whenever Puppeteer and Blaze had been in closer quarters, somewhere not in the view of the masses on the streets, their fight disappeared from the public eye. Anyone in those areas had been too close to Blaze to survive. Puppeteer had tried to keep the casualties to a minimum, of course, as any upstanding superhero would do, but she just couldn't prevent the deaths of those unfortunate souls who had strayed too close.

No, she couldn't prevent their deaths. Because she was the one who caused them.

There's hardly anything anyone can do to fight a Desolation superhuman. Water won't work, and getting close enough to land a hit would mean almost certain death. The only way to fight someone like Blaze or Fireball would be to burn them out. To make them use their power enough that they don't have anywhere to draw that fire from. And a surefire way to do that? Provide enough cannon fodder.

Martin watches in horror as the people step forward, movements robotic and twitching, marionettes under Puppeteer’s strings. “You… you can't.”

Puppeteer’s voice is even and calm, utterly at ease with what she's doing. It's even more horrifying than anything else Martin has faced, worse than the Boneturner, worse than the Flesh Hive, worse than Fireball. “I can.”

She tightens around his mind again. He wants to move, wants to stop her, but he can't. He's locked in place. He can only watch as the people from the office, maybe twenty of them, step forward, going to stand in front of the window. Martin can sense the heat as Fireball begins descending, enough of her put back together than she can move again. Ready to follow Martin and Puppeteer inside. Ready to kill all of these people.

He can't do anything. He has to do something. _He has to do something_.

He's not sure how he tears Puppeteer out of his mind. He feels the web she has wrapped around him break and he regains control of himself. Puppeteer turns back to him, her spiders freezing in alarm, holes in the webs over her eyes widening. She tries to take control of him again, but it's too late. Martin has decided what he's going to do.

It's stupid, of course. But aren't all of his plans?

He runs forward at Puppeteer, simultaneously using his webs to pull the people in front of the window out of the way. Puppeteer seems to realize what he's doing, but she doesn't react soon enough. Martin barrels into her, knocking her backward. She catches herself, trying to shove him past her and out the window, but he wraps his arms around her and brings her down with him. Her feet slip off the edge.

And they fall. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing tip: don't plan out your fight scenes beforehand. This provides no observable benefits, but apparently that's what I've decided to do throughout this entire fic.


	15. Chapter 15

Before this moment, Martin would never have thought that any fight could have gone _worse_ than the first time he fought Fireball, but he's somehow managed it. Not only is he fighting Fireball, who’s even more angry than the first time, but he's managed to piss off the tentative ally (or at least someone not actively trying to kill him) he had in Puppeteer by tackling her out of a window to stop her from killing twenty people.

Not to mention the fact that they're currently falling to the ground out of a third story window with Fireball diving after them.

Puppeteer and Martin can't stop their fall. Martin is too close to Fireball to pull through a web, and even if Puppeteer is strong enough, stopping will mean getting directly in the path of Fireball’s descent. They're going to hit the ground, and they're going to hit it hard. Puppeteer twists in the air and shoves Martin underneath her. He kicks at her, getting her off him enough that he can try to right himself. He doesn't hit the concrete at a great angle, but it's enough that he can get into a roll to not take the full force of the impact. Even so, it's enough to knock the air out of him and nearly snap all his limbs. Puppeteer lands much smoother beside him, bending into a perfect roll and leaping back upright, light on her feet. Her head snaps over to Martin, her eye-holes narrowing, jaw tightening.

Then Fireball crashes down.

The force of the impact sends Martin flying. His back hits something solid, but it's too bright to see and to hot to feel. He blindly attempts to scramble out of the way, but he isn't sure where anything is. For a second, he's consumed by the heat and the fear and that awful certainty that he's going to die. Then he notices that he is not, in fact, being burned alive. He tentatively opens his eyes.

Fireball and Puppeteer are fighting, seeming to have forgotten about Martin, at least for the moment. Martin’s fought plenty of superhumans himself, but those fights pale in comparison. He's grasping at straws, clueless about what to do, making it up as he goes along. He's seen videos of real superhuman fights before, but those are nothing like seeing it in person.

Fireball and Puppeteer are some of the most powerful superhumans in existence, and it shows in the way they fight.

Fireball is angry, her movements messy and wide and enraged. But with her powers, she has no need for precision. Her flames burn bright and hot, gouging into the asphalt of the street, taking chunks out of the sides of the buildings. The spectators and fire crews and police have fled a ways down the street, not wanting to be anywhere near Fireball’s path. With every second, she gets a little bit more intense, her flesh sloughing and melting and dripping, fires getting hotter.

What Puppeteer lacks in pure power she makes up for with her skill. She's moving so fast that Martin can hardly see her. She dodges the volleys of fire, body twisting and contorting in ways that should not be possible. Her spiders seem to have left her, vanished from the webs that cover her. It's too bright for Martin to see where they've gone. She leaps from web to web, lines Martin doesn't even see her draw, strong enough to withstand the flames. She's leading Fireball on and down the street, jumping from web to ground to building to web. Fireball can't land a hit, no matter how hot she burns. Occasionally, Puppeteer slices through Fireball with a well-placed web, but it hardly seems to do anything.

Martin almost wants to leave them. He can't do anything against Fireball without getting himself burned, and Puppeteer is stronger than him by far. They might be focused on each other now, but as soon as one’s done, the other’s going to go after Martin. He doesn't want to have to fight them, either of them. One of them will win eventually either way.

But he ignores the sharp stab of fear and goes toward the fight anyway.

They aren't going to stay this close to the ground for long. Aside from a few unfortunate people’s cars and some new potholes, the destruction here is at a minimum. Puppeteer’s going to drive the fight inside or Fireball’s going to drive it upwards, and both of those would bad. People are going to die when Puppeteer commands them to or when Fireball sets even more buildings alight. There isn't much time.

Goddammit.

Martin can't really do anything right now. His webs are slowly reforming, but he won't be able to get close enough to Fireball to do anything. The most he could do is try to distract her, but he doubts that will work. Fireball is facing Blaze’s actual killer; nothing is going to tear her away from that. So Martin’s going to have to move Puppeteer.

That's a lot easier said than done. Unlike Martin, Puppeteer seems to be collected enough to remember to remove her webs when she's done using them every time. Martin’s webs aren't strong enough to withstand Fireball’s heat, so the best he can do is run after them. Puppeteer doesn't seem to have a solid direction that she's going at the moment, so Martin has enough time to get to them. Still, as his breath starts to catch as he gets closer, heat from Fireball increasing with every second, it's hard to will himself to keep going.

But he does.

Puppeteer and Fireball are next to the burning insurance office when Martin catches up to them. It's the perfect opportunity. Martin jumps out of the way of a ball of fire that comes too close for comfort, then leaps up to grab onto one of Puppeteer’s webs that she's trying to cut Fireball with. Puppeteer flinches at Martin’s weight, clearly not expecting him to be there. She also doesn't expect him to use the web to swing himself into her and send them both crashing through a window of the burning insurance agency.

It's not exactly one of Martin's better ideas, but it might work. Maybe.

“What are you doing?” Puppeteer growls as she twists in midair and drives Martin into the floor so he takes the brunt of the impact.

Martin wants to respond, but he's more focused on trying to breathe. Between the impact and the smoke inhalation, that's getting difficult. Puppeteer hauls him upright as she gets back to her feet, fingers hooked on the front of his cloak, pulling him up close to her face. He still can't see her eyes beyond the holes in the webs. He can't see anything beyond the webs.

“Stay out of my way,” she growls, dropping him back to the floor.

Then Fireball blasts through the front of the building. And it's not just breaking a window like Martin and Puppeteer did, it’s destroying the entire wall from end to end, leaving only a couple support beams that are mostly burned away. Martin flattens himself to the floor, getting out of the way of most of the heat. Puppeteer isn't quite so lucky. Fireball slams straight into her, knocking her back into the front desk, destroying it entirely. Even so, she manages to roll out from under Fireball and get out of the way as Fireball unleashes another burst of flame. Puppeteer is slightly singed and seems to be tiring a bit, but the fight is nowhere close to over. Martin stays down, crawling on the floor, in part to try and not breathe smoke and in part to avoid Fireball’s detection. The building creaks ominously, part of the floor above falling down in a shower of embers.

“Give up, Jude,” Puppeteer says as she loops a web around what might be Fireball’s arm and tries to cut it off.

Fireball rips the web off, her voice bubbling with rage and cruel laughter. “After you killed Agnes? I’m going to burn away every part of you. They won't be able to find your corpse. We made a deal, Annabelle.”

Puppeteer flings a chair at Fireball, which disintegrates before it can even come close. “You really thought we would just let it go? She ruined the balance because she couldn't curb her destructive urges. I've kept it up for a decade! She was weak, and weakness must be culled. A single weak strand can destroy the whole web.”

Fireball dims, her flames receding even as her rage seems to grow. “ _Don't_.”

Puppeteer doesn't stop. “After what she did, did you really think we were going to let her go? She killed Fielding. Some ridiculous deal about not hurting her if she didn't hurt us doesn't change that.” She steps over a burning section of floor to move close to Fireball, and Fireball doesn't try to stop her. “You know how this works, Jude. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth-”

Puppeteer is cut off as Fireball reaches out and grabs her by the throat, her flames flaring brighter once again. “A life for a life.”

And Puppeteer begins to burn. It's not as bad as it could be; her webs she wears as a suit seem to be protecting her from the worst of the heat. But as Martin watches through the smoke, the webs start to blacken and char. It won't be long before they're burned away, letting Fireball’s flames reach the skin beneath. If Puppeteer has skin. Martin’s not entirely sure that she's not completely made of webs, but either way…

If Puppeteer dies, no one will be left to stop Fireball. So Martin has to make sure that doesn't happen.

He stands, trying his hardest not to breathe smoke, and throws a burning piece of shrapnel from the floor at Fireball. Fireball is still burning hot enough that it disintegrates rather quickly, but there's just enough left to hit her. It doesn't do anything but bounce off her head, but it's enough to distract her momentarily. Enough that Puppeteer can sharply draw up a hand, bringing through a web that slices through Fireball’s arm holding her by the throat. She drops to the floor, landing smoothly on her feet despite the burns down her entire front. Martin can't see her eyes, isn't even sure if she _has_ eyes, but he feels her looking at him. She nods sharply before she springs up to cling to the ceiling as Fireball reattaches her arm.

Fireball doesn't even look back at Martin. She's still entirely focused on Puppeteer. He knows he needs to come up with some sort of plan, but he's starting to get dizzy and confused. It hurts to breathe. It hurts a lot to breathe. The mask is filtering some of the smoke, but it's not enough of it. There's too much smoke and the building might come down at any minute. Fireball knocking out the wall only made it more unstable. Fireball throws flames at Puppeteer, missing her but knocking out the entire rest of the ceiling not already burned away. The building creaks again, swaying, shrapnel falling from above. It's close, but not close enough.

“Puppeteer,” he calls, wheezing and struggling to breathe.

Her head snaps in his direction, eye-slits narrowed. He gestures to one of the remaining walls, hoping that she'll understand him. She doesn't. She backflips out of the way of another one of Fireball’s attacks and continues to ignore him. There isn't much time left; Martin has to get out of here soon or he's probably going to die. Puppeteer seems to be having the same idea. She feints right and goes left, passing around Fireball and toward the missing wall. If she gets back outside, there's nothing Martin will be able to do to stop either of them.

Martin doesn't really think. He reaches out into whatever reality his webs exist in, grasping for something he's not entirely sure will be there. It is. One of few frayed, burning strands that's barely strong enough to bring to reality. He pulls. The web wraps around Puppeteer, sharply yanking her upwards. Martin doesn't see where she goes through all the smoke, and it doesn't particularly matter. He runs for the open wall, hoping Fireball doesn't notice him. She doesn't, instead changing her course to follow Puppeteer up.

Martin’s not sure what she hits or where she hits, but it's enough. The building gives one final groan, melting steel squealing as it tries and fails to support what little building there is left. Martin barely gets back out onto the street before the building falls. It falls almost vertically, collapsing in on itself, supports finally giving way. Martin braces himself for the wave of smoke and debris that will follow, but it doesn't come. As it falls, the building dissolves, burning away under an immense cloud of fire. Floor after floor disintegrates, vaporizing under the intense heat. Fireball is using her full power now, but instead of leveling half the city, she's using it to stop herself from being crushed. And then, as soon as it appeared, the fire vanishes, leaving the last remaining pieces of concrete and metal to crash to the ground.

Martin watches for a moment, waiting for Fireball to come out, flaming and enraged, ready to burn him alive. But it doesn't happen. The only person that emerges is Puppeteer, crawling and injured, burned and scorched, but alive. She gets to her feet, trodding across the destroyed remnants of the insurance agency building before bending down and pulling something out of the wreckage. A person. A burned, bleeding person not made of… whatever Fireball is made of anymore. Human, at least as much as she can be. Burned out. Puppeteer throws Fireball — no, not Fireball, Jude Perry — back down the ground.

Martin walks over, lungs still burning with the smoke, rubble crunching under his feet. “She's down?” he asks, voice rasping.

Puppeteer doesn't respond, nudging Jude with her foot. Jude groans, face — human now, not melted — contorting in a weak snarl. Her eyes are closed and she doesn't seem to be able to move much. Puppeteer nods, looking over to Martin. Martin feels a spike of fear then, desperately hoping she won't decide to kill him. She'd seemed to have forgiven him for throwing her out of the office window, and into the insurance agency building, but he had also stopped her from escaping. She doesn't make a move except to tilt her head as she looks at him.

“Hm,” she says, considering, then looks back to Jude. “Later.”

“I- right.” Martin coughs, still trying to clear his lungs. “I’ll go- I’ll go get the police, they should be able to-”

“No need.”

Martin doesn't see what she means until he sees the spiders begin to crawl down Jude’s throat. Her eyes snap open and she convulses, choking. The spiders. This is how Puppeteer kills, at least when she wants it to be public, she chokes her victims with her spiders and then forces them to make their own killing blow. Jude tries to stop them, weakly reaching up with her hands that glow with the tiniest shreds of flame, but the spiders don't stop. Martin can feel Puppeteer’s controlling webs extend to Jude, forcing her hands to wrap around her neck. Puppeteer just watches, still and silent except for her hands, slowly moving in front of her to control the spiders.

It would be better for Jude Perry — for Fireball — to be dead. She's done so much wrong, killed so many people. But no one deserves to die like this.

Martin is barely aware of himself reaching for a web, pulling it through, wrapping it around one of Puppeteer’s hands. It startles her enough to break her concentration, the spiders skittering away and her control over Jude breaking. Jude heaves in a ragged breath, coughing up spiders, as Puppeteer whips around to face Martin.

“And what do you think you're doing?” she says.

“I- you- you can't kill her. I don't- we don't kill people.” It sounds weak as he says it, a feeble excuse, but it's true. He doesn't want anyone to die, doesn't want to be responsible for the death of any person, no matter who they are.

Puppeteer laughs, a clipped and bitter sound. “You aren't one of us. _I_ kill people, _we_ kill people. You are not part of us; you are not anyone. All you are is weak, little spider.” She pulls her hand and snaps the flimsy web around it. “Now leave me to my-”

She never gets to finish.

Because she _burns_.

One second Puppeteer is whole if quite a bit singed, and the next she's dissolving, burning, a column of fire and flaming webs. Her webs flake off, blackened ash that drifts up with the heat of the flames. She doesn't scream, makes no sound at all as her entire body burns to nothing. And there is _nothing_. Nothing but embers and ash and smoke. She's gone. Dead in barely the blink of an eye. The wind scatters what little of Puppeteer was left until any suggestion that she ever existed vanishes entirely.

Gone. Dead. Because of Martin. His fault. He'd murdered her just as surely as if he'd struck the killing blow himself.

He stares at where she'd been standing, looking at Fireball on the ground a short distance away. She meets his eyes and laughs weakly and cruelly, smile lighting up her face like the fire that recedes back into her hands. Then she collapses, eyes closing, unconscious. Martin just stands there, not breathing, not moving, barely in possession of his own body anymore.

Puppeteer was a horrible person. She'd killed so many people, had served the powers that killed so many more. She'd forced people to throw themselves into the flames to protect herself, done nothing against the system killing people in Scion City for fifteen years. She, like all of the others, probably deserved to die.

Martin should feel good about killing her, about letting her die like that. He was the hero, he saved the day, he prevented so many people from dying. But he doesn't feel that, because he just killed someone, even if it wasn't directly. He just _killed_ someone.

As the police and fire crews and countless spectators approach, Martin doesn't feel pride. He doesn't feel heroism, he doesn't feel triumph.

No, all he feels is guilt. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I'm just as worried for Martin as all of you but does that mean I'm going to stop Doing This? Apparently not, I guess.


	16. Chapter 16

(Excerpts from the field notes of Jonathan Sims regarding the Puppeteer/Fireball fight occurring on 6th November, 2018)

-Fight started shortly before one o’clock.  
-Most buildings in vicinity evacuated and civilians directed away. Cannot persuade the fire crews and police to let me past.   
-Several buildings on fire, damage likely irreparable. ~~Ask~~ ~~Tim~~ ~~Sasha~~ ~~Martin~~ Find what buildings are near Arthur and Sons law firm.  
-Can’t see fight from vantage point. Interview closer witnesses if possible  
-Multiple spectators making betting pools on which superhuman might win.  
-Why are they fighting? They both ~~work for~~ are the Entities. Why would Puppeteer kill Blaze in the first place?   
-Still unable to see fight, but crowd has gotten louder. No one is responding to my questions about what is going on.   
-Have heard that the Weaver has appeared, apparently. Why the hell is he here?   
-Building just came down. Don't know which one. At least this is real. This isn't a staged fight like the rest, if the Weaver’s encounter with Fireball is anything to go by. Unless he was lying about that too. Why are they all lying? What is the purpose of all of this? What could they possibly hope to accomplish? Everything for this equilibrium. I thought we'd learned almost everything, but we've only scratched the surface. I want to find out more. I need to find out more.

\---

It takes nearly half an hour for the crowd to disperse enough for Jon to get to the scene of the fight. He'd arrived a bit too late to get close to the action, and everyone in front of him seemed to want to see just as much as he did. The police and fire crews wanted to get there even more. They've managed to douse most of the fires in the buildings and have moved onto the wreckage of the one completely demolished. Jon’s been trying to listen to the crowd and has gathered that Fireball is alive and being taken into custody. Impressive, if not Puppeteer’s style.

It's rather difficult to gather anything from the rubble of the destroyed building. It was burned down completely, collapsed in on itself. A lot of it looks like it's _gone_ , melted completely into nothing. Jon takes a few pictures, but otherwise there isn't much to get from the wreckage. The police are not in a talking mood, and the statements Jon’s been trying to get from witnesses have been scattered and not detailed enough. And then, looking around, Jon sees someone who can probably give a more detailed account.

The Weaver is sitting on top of a closed dumpster on the other side of the street, away from the crowd, cloak pulled tight around his shoulders. He's oddly difficult to see, nondescript even with the obvious suit. Jon instinctively starts walking toward him without really processing what he's doing. Then he remembers that the Weaver is just the same as all the rest of him, that he'd probably kill Jon if he knew that Jon knows. He's not Jon’s friend; he was lying to him, manipulating him. But if he has an account of what actually happened, it would be worth it to interview him. And besides, it's not like the Weaver can kill him with so many witnesses around.

The Weaver doesn't seem to notice Jon as he approaches. It takes Jon knocking on the side of the dumpster for the Weaver to jump to attention, nearly falling to the ground.

“Oh! I- um, hi, Jon,” the Weaver says, sounding rather hoarse, relaxing again.

“Weaver.” Jon tries to keep his voice even and pleasant, though he's not sure if it's entirely convincing.

“I… I guess you… you probably want a statement about the fight.” The Weaver’s voice sounds oddly distant, distracted.

Jon takes out his tape recorder, forcing away any other thoughts, focusing on the story he needs to get. “That would be nice.” He doesn't wait for confirmation before he starts the recording. “Interview of the Weaver, 6th November, 2018, regarding the fight between Fireball and Puppeteer.”

The Weaver doesn't say anything for a while. “It… um… Puppeteer, she… she tried to kill people today.”

Jon supposes he should be surprised, but he's not, considering Puppeteer has been part of the Web all along. “Did she?”

“She, um, she controlled people. Tried to use them to burn Fireball out. It's why- why I threw Puppeteer out of that window.”

“You threw Puppeteer out of a window?”

“Well, more like tackled her, really. But it… I thought… I didn't think they did that. The- the heroes, I mean. Even if they are… part of the Entities, or whatever. She just… She didn't care.”

“And you do?”

“Of course I do!” The Weaver says, more anger in his voice than Jon has ever heard. “Of course I fucking care! Why do you think I’m doing this? I could have _died_ today to keep people safe. I didn't have to be here, I didn't have to stop Puppeteer from killing those people, I didn't have to stop Fireball from burning down the whole city. Why would I keep throwing myself into danger like this if I didn't care?”

“Equilibrium,” Jon ventures. It's a risk to show that he knows, but there's no other way he can get answers.

“Wh- what?”

“Equilibrium,” Jon repeats. “It’s what all of you work for, after all.”

“I don't even know what the hell that means.”

“You can't lie to me anymore, Weaver,” Jon says coldly. “I know what you are now. I know what you're trying to do. But how about you tell me?”

“It- it- I- I don't know,” the Weaver says, frustration edging his voice. “I don't know what any of it means. I'm not part of whatever… conspiracy this is.”

Jon scoffs. “You expect me to believe that?”

The Weaver shakes his head, looking toward the ground, voice resigned. “I… I guess not.”

“Then what is it? What is the balance the Entities want?”

“I don't- I don't know.” He sighs. “I'm sorry, Jon, I-”

“I don't want your apologies,” Jon snaps.

“I’m not a murderer, Jon, you don't-” He cuts himself off, silent for a moment, then begins to laugh. “Oh, goddammit, I am a murderer, aren't I?”

“What?”

The Weaver laughs again, shaking his head. “I killed Puppeteer. She- she was going to kill Fireball after we took her down, and I stopped her, and then Fireball killed her. _I_ killed her; I let her die. It doesn't matter that she wasn't a good person. She died because of me.”

“That shouldn't be a new feeling,” Jon says, “considering how many people the Entities have killed.”

The Weaver is silent. Jon almost wants to take back what he said. He's being needlessly cruel. He should be comforting the Weaver, his friend, making him feel less guilt instead of more. He wants to reach out, take the Weaver’s hand, make things right. But that's stupid. No matter what Jon felt for the Weaver before, it doesn't change the fact that the Weaver is a liar, a member of the Entities. He's just as responsible for all the destruction as the others. He’ll probably kill Jon just as readily as Elias would.

“I’m not- I’m not with the Entities,” the Weaver finally says. “I didn't even know that every superhuman was part of them until- until a couple weeks ago.”

“You were a much better liar last time we talked, Weaver. You’ll have to try harder than that to convince me now.”

“Yeah. Maybe you're right.” The Weaver stands on top of the dumpster, sharply waving a hand and grabbing onto the web he pulls through. “Goodbye, Jon. Sorry about your interview.”

Then the Weaver springs upward, jumping between webs and vanishing onto the rooftops. Jon feels a pang of… something in his chest. Guilt? Regret? Yes, it certainly seems like it, ridiculous as that is. Jon wishes he could stop feeling that. It’s ridiculous; even if he did think of the Weaver as a friend, the Weaver never felt the same. Still, that feeling won't go away, that ache, that desire to apologize, to concede, to reconcile. It's because still, even after everything, Jon still wants the Weaver to be his friend.

Or, he decides as he turns his tape recorder off, maybe it's just because he probably won't be able to use any of this for an article. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who will win: my constant worry for all the characters or my compulsive need to write Angsty Bullshit?
> 
> (I never really intended for this fic to get this angsty but uhh this is just where we're at folks whoops)


	17. Chapter 17

Martin doesn't bother going back to work for the rest of the day after the fight. Or the next day. He's not intending to go today either. What's Elias going to do? Fire him? Well, he could probably kill Martin if he wanted to, but it hasn't happened yet. And as long as Martin can avoid going back to the _Times_ , he's going to continue to do so.

It's not like he's doing anything, really. He hasn't turned on his computer since he tried to get on it after he came back to his flat two days ago after talking to Jon. Turns out Sasha and Jon managed to scrape together an article about the fight. Not that Martin read much of it, of course. He'd opened it, read two paragraphs, then slammed the laptop shut and sat on his bed staring at the wall for a while. He hasn't touched his phone except to answer Jon and Sasha’s calls as to where he is. His answer has always been the same: he’s sick, and no, nothing has him trapped in his flat this time. He just doesn't feel good. It's not really a lie. He's only tried to leave his flat once, an attempt at a walk to clear his head that ended quickly when he came across a memorial to Puppeteer on the side of the street. The rest of Scion City still believes she's a hero, after all, tragically killed by Fireball during their fight.

The one thing he has tried to do is get rid of his suit. The first time, he'd thrown it in the trash outside. It had been back at his door in ten minutes. The second time, he'd tried to cut it into pieces. He’d mangled the scissors and the kitchen knife he'd used to do so, but he eventually managed to shred it. There was a knock twenty minutes later and he'd opened his door to see a new suit laying on the floor. The third time, he'd tried to burn it. He'd asked his neighbor to borrow a lighter and been given one after a bit of grumbling. He'd gotten as far as turning on the lighter before he'd started to panic, feeling Fireball’s heat and hearing the crackle of flames. He'd thrown the lighter out the window (much to his neighbor’s annoyance when she'd asked for it back) and shoved the suit back into his closet, where he'd piled other clothes on top of it for good measure.

Martin didn't feel right being the Weaver after finding Gertrude’s notes, but it's worse now that he's a murderer. Now that he's killed someone. Sure, maybe he didn't burn her himself, but it's all semantics anyway. She died because of him. He killed her. He hadn't killed the Boneturner, he hadn't killed the Flesh Hive, he hadn't killed Mike Crew, hell, he'd _stopped_ Puppeteer from killing Fireball. Out of all of them, why did Martin have to murder the one that at least pretended to do good? Maybe it's for the best. Scion City will be better without someone like Puppeteer, someone who supported the Entities, someone who forced people to their deaths. Still, that doesn't change the guilt that's been gnawing away at Martin’s insides.

Martin’s in the middle of his second full day of avoiding work when he gets another phone call. He doesn't even bother looking at the caller ID. It's probably just Jon or Sasha calling again, checking to see if he's alright or asking him to look into something. He picks it up and answers with a reluctant, tired “Yeah?”

The pressing guilt and dull emptiness he's been feeling for the past two days is shoved away by a burning spike of terror as he hears the voice on the other end. “Hello, Martin,” Elias says, voice even and normal and composed, nothing like what the voice of a cold-blooded killer should sound like.

The only thing Martin manages to respond with is a dull, stunned “What?”

“I've noticed that you've been absent from work lately. I take it you have an explanation?”

“I- I- I don't… I don't… know?”

“You don't know?” Elias’s voice is a slow drawl, mocking and snide.

“I’ve- um, I've been sick,” he says, trying to emphasize the residual hoarseness from the smoke.

“I thought I made the consequences about lying to me clear enough to understand, even for you. I suggest you be honest with me, unless you want me to follow through. Should I call Jonathan up to my office?”

“No! No, no, that won't- that isn't…” Martin pulls the phone away from his ear and takes a deep breath before putting it back. “You- you already know.”

Martin can hear Elias’s smug smile on the other end. “Maybe I do. But I’d still like to hear it from you, if you don't mind. An employer has every right to inquire into the absence of his employees.”

“I… it was… You _know_ what happened, Elias.”

“Hm,” Elias says, taking a few seconds to muse. “He really hates you now, doesn't he?”

Martin doesn't respond.

“You’re part of the enemy now, Martin,” Elias continues. “Just like the thing that terrorized him as a child, just like the thing that tore Sasha to shreds, just like the thing that killed Tim’s brother.”

“Stop it!”

Elias doesn't listen. “What would Jonathan do, I wonder? He'd hate you, of course. He’d hate you even if you hadn't found Gertrude’s notes. You've been _lying_ to him, Martin, lying to all of them. But this isn't only lying, not like your falsified qualifications. This is covering up your hand in the murder of so many people.”

Martin feels himself sliding down the wall, sinking to the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest to make himself as small as possible. “I didn't-”

“He probably wouldn't do anything himself. He's never quite had the stomach. Though he has always harbored a strong resentment for monsters; maybe he'd make an exception.” He pauses a moment to consider. “No, probably not. He would hate you, but I still don't think he could bring himself to do it. He'd tell Tim and Sasha, of course, and well… We know how Tim is, how much he would want revenge for his brother. Knowing that you are culpable for his murder would be a convenient outlet. Would Jonathan watch as Tim killed you? What do you think?”

Martin just groans, curling in on himself. He wants to hang up the phone. All he needs to do is hang up the phone. He can't hang up the phone. No matter how much he wants to, he can't so much as pull it away.

“So? Should I call Jonathan? Or would you like to tell me why you aren't here?”

Martin takes a moment to respond. It's difficult to form words. “I- I… I killed- I killed Puppeteer,” he says, voice small and weak. “I can't… I don't… I can't face them like this. Jon and Tim and Sasha. I don't know if I can pretend I'm not a murderer. I don't know if I can just pretend that everything is fine.”

“Well, it's a good thing you excel at pretending.” Elias’s voice suddenly loses all traces of that cruel good humor, turning instead authoritative and commanding. “I suggest you don't continue upsetting the equilibrium, Martin. It’s a delicate balance we maintain here in Scion City, and if you continue to kill people that are… on your side, so to speak… I would advise you to leave your moral quandaries behind and do as you’re told. It’s in your best interest to know your place.”

“I… I…”

“I expect you back at the _Times_ office in half an hour. I advise you not be late.”

Elias hangs up. Martin drops the phone to the floor. He sits there, staring, shaking, for a while. He can't think. He can't breathe. He can't do this. He can't go back to the office, he can't be around Jon and Tim and Sasha, he can't go where Elias is. He can't act like it isn't his fault that the superhuman they're probably still writing about is dead.

He does end up at the _Times_ office in less than half an hour, somehow. He's not entirely sure. He's kind of dazed, not really processing anything going on anymore. Everything is weirdly dull but somehow clear at the same time. He catches snippets of his walk, burned into his brain with pristine clarity, little moments that send his head spinning. An electronics store with its display televisions all playing the same video, a grainy shot of Fireball wreathed in flame hovering over a burning building. A little kid, maybe four years old, holding a cheap Puppeteer action figure in one hand and holding onto her father's hand with the other. Several people that look just enough like Elias that Martin’s heart stops. A small spider making its web on a shop window.

It takes a minute for him to open the front door to the _Times_ office, and a little longer to bring himself to push the button on the lift and step inside. He briefly considers going up to Elias’s office, just to make sure he knows he's there, but Martin figures he'll know anyway. He's not sure exactly what powers Elias has, but he must be able to… see things. He knows that Martin’s there. He doesn't want to go to the reporting floor either, but he does anyway. He may be in the building if he's sitting in the lift, but he doesn't want to risk it.

There's no one immediately visible when Martin gets up to the reporting floor. Jon’s probably shut in his office, and Tim and Sasha must be in theirs. Or maybe they're all on their lunch break right now. Jon had suggested going out for lunch on Thursday. It's probably good that Martin wasn't here for that. He can't talk to Jon right now. Elias is right, after all. With how much Jon hates the Weaver for lying to him, and with how long Martin has been lying and not telling anyone about who he is… No, he can't talk to Jon.

What he can do is go sit in his office and stare at the wall and hyperventilate. Which he does for the better part of fifteen minutes. Why did this have to happen to him? Out of every superhuman in Scion City, why does he have to be the one that doesn't know anything? Why does he have to be the one that feels guilty about everything? It would be so much easier to be like the others, to be like Puppeteer and Fireball and everyone else that doesn't care about any of it. But no, he's stuck with the superpowers that he's too scared to use now even though he feels like he should because he's the only one that actually cares. He's the only one who actually cares and he doesn't know a goddamn thing about anything; all he does is get pulled along by everything going on around him.

Any of the other three would have been better at this than Martin. Sasha would be able to keep a level head for more than two seconds. Tim would be mad enough that he'd be able to actually do anything. And Jon wouldn't stop until he got the answers. He wouldn't sit there and wait for the answers to come to him, he'd go out and find them so he could understand what's happening.

And what has Martin done? Not gotten answers, that's for sure. No, he's been wandering around, trying to help but fucking things up more in the process. He should have been able to do more. He should have been able to stop more people from getting hurt. He should have been able to stop Fireball the first time. He should have been able to figure out what was going on so Jon and Tim and Sasha wouldn't have needed to find Gertrude's notes, so they wouldn't have to be afraid of Elias and the Weaver and everyone else. He should have been able to stop Fireball from destroying all those buildings in the fight. He should have been able to stop Puppeteer from dying. He should be able to do something about Elias, but he can't.

He can't do anything. Even with superpowers, even with an alternative identity where he doesn't have to be himself, he still can't do anything. He's still not good enough.

Martin’s spiraling thoughts are interrupted when the door to his office opens. He's startled enough that he nearly falls backward out of his chair and barely manages to keep himself from pulling webs to steady himself. It takes a second to collect himself enough to even process who’s there. It’s Jon. The person that Martin can handle talking to the least right now.

“Oh! Hi, Jon. I thought you- I thought you were on break. I didn't- I didn't think you were in.”

Jon sighs and closes the door. “I didn't think you were either. I-” Jon cuts himself off, brow furrowed as he looks at Martin. “Are you alright?”

“I’m- I’m fine.” Martin winces when his voice cracks on the last word. “I'm just- just tired, is all.”

Jon sighs. “Martin…”

Martin shakes his head. “It's… I don't…” he can't say what's wrong. He can't tell Jon. “I've just… not been feeling well. And then- and then Elias called me in for work-”

“He called you in?”

“Elias… um, he- he…” Martin trails off, biting back the tears that begin to well in his eyes. “He- he- he threatened me.”

Jon’s voice is filled with more venom than Martin has ever heard. “He threatened you?”

“It’s fine, Jon, I’m fine, I can't…” Martin takes a deep and shaky breath. “He didn't- he didn't do anything. I don't think… He’s not going to kill me. I don't think so.”

That might be true, but it doesn't make Martin feel any better. Mentioning it only makes him feel worse. Now his mind is spinning back, back to the conversation on the phone with Elias, back to his talk with Jon as the Weaver. How much Jon hates the Weaver now. How if Jon ever finds out that Martin is the Weaver, he’ll hate Martin too. He can't cry, not in front of Jon, not now, but it's getting so difficult not to. His mind is bouncing back and forth and always going back to that conversation, always going back to that conclusion, always going back to how Jon’s going to hate him.

Jon looks like he's about to speak, but Martin interrupts him, not caring about how rude it is anymore. “Jon? Are you- are we- are we friends?”

Jon blinks, looking stunned for a moment. “What?”

Martin looks down at his desk, regret already shoving its way into his mind. “Are we friends?” he says again, voice small.

“What- Martin, I don't-” He stops, clears his throat. “Of course we are, Martin. I don't- I don't understand-”

Martin stands from his chair. He doesn't really have time to think about what he's doing. He walks around to the other side of the desk and pulls Jon into a hug. He feels Jon tense, back straightening and muscles tightening. Martin distantly realizes how awkward this is, how much he should not have done this, but for a moment, he doesn't care. He _needs_ this. He needs to have something to ground himself right now. A reminder that maybe, as Martin, there's a chance that things could be okay. If he's not the Weaver, things might be okay. And he does feel like they might be, if only for a moment. Jon is Martin’s friend; he doesn't hate Martin, he hates the Weaver. And Tim and Sasha are the same. As long as Martin can keep it a secret, it's going to be okay. Jon relaxes slightly, hesitantly reaching up to wrap his own arms around Martin.

That's enough to snap Martin back to reality and he jolts back, realizing that he just overstepped the line by so much. “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn't- sorry.”

Jon pushes his glasses up, shuffling his feet. “No, no, it's fine, Martin. I- I- Are you sure you’re alright?”

Martin gives him an attempt at a reassuring smile. “I think- I think I’m okay.”

And he hopes that maybe, in time, he will be. 


	18. Chapter 18

Jon hates not understanding things. He always has. He hated not knowing what had happened to Gertrude, hated not knowing what she knew that led to her death. Now he does know, but he doesn't understand what any of it _means_.

He should drop it. There's no way he can get the information he needs without putting himself in a dangerous situation. Elias is still a problem, and despite Martin’s vagueness about what Elias actually threatened him with, it's clear that if one of the reporters steps out of line, he won't hesitate before taking drastic measures. Jon wants to drop this investigation, the same as he wanted to drop the investigation into Gertrude. With how well that went, it's rather clear that, for better or worse, Jon’s going to have to see this through. No matter how imposing that is. No matter how much it’s started to scare him.

And he's going to have to do it alone. The others have already been hurt enough. Jon’s put them through enough. They've been endangered enough. Jon can do this on his own. He _has_ to do this on his own.

Well, he would. If he had any leads.

For the past week, the only thing he's been able to do is continue looking into the fight between Fireball and Puppeteer. And the Weaver. Jon has tried to avoid thinking about the Weaver as much as possible. He hasn't been particularly successful. Even knowing what he does about the superhumans of Scion City, even knowing that the Weaver has been lying to him and manipulating him the entire time, some part of Jon still wants to like the Weaver. Wants to be friends. Wants to think that somehow, impossibly, the Weaver isn't like every single other superhuman in the city.

But that isn't true. Jon knows that isn't true. Even if the Weaver does seem different, even with how much the Weaver has risked to try and help people, even with how he stopped Puppeteer from killing anyone. He hadn't been lying about that, apparently. Puppeteer really had been trying to use people as shields against Fireball; that fact had been affirmed by all seventeen people that she had controlled. The Weaver had also stopped her from killing Fireball, though that's more difficult to guess the motive for.

That, and his complete exposure of Puppeteer for trying to kill those people. If the Weaver hadn't knocked her out of the window and her victims had died, her secret would have been safe. As soon as the public found out, the fallout had been immense. The hastily constructed memorials that had been put up after the fight were destroyed within hours of the news outlets releasing witness interviews. There have been protests around the city, citizens convinced that the mayor or the police or the big businesses knew about Puppeteer before she was exposed. Some people are beginning to speculate on how deep the corruption goes, on how many superheroes are not as good as they claim to be.

The whole situation makes Jon want to think that the Weaver is trying to expose the Entities, or at the very least cares enough about people that revealing the corruption is less of an issue. But he can't afford to believe that. There's no reason to think that the Weaver is some sort of exception. Those kinds of assumptions get people killed, and Jon isn't in a hurry to die.

Still, no matter how much he wants to distract himself from the Weaver business, it's proven to be difficult. It's hard to distance himself from the whole thing when the fight between the Weaver, Fireball, and Puppeteer is all that anybody’s covering. Work has always helped to take his mind off things, but when what he's working on is what he doesn't want to think about, it gets difficult. And there has been plenty of work to do, since to maintain any resemblance of a professional paper, the journalists at the _Times_ have had to work as much as possible.

Sasha is still doing her job just as well as always. Virtually every article written about the fight has had Sasha’s name on it, and with how many new developments have been revealed every day, there have been many of those articles. Martin is still distressed and Jon doesn't want to push him after Martin’s… whatever _that_ was on Thursday after being threatened by Elias. While he doesn't seem to want to work in actual publishing at the moment, he has been keeping track anything else happening around the city and has tried to keep morale up with frankly absurd amounts of tea. Even Tim has begrudgingly joined in, though all he's done is take a few witness calls and make a couple disgruntled comments about everything that's going on.

While actually having to work has been inconvenient for Jon’s research, it is convenient for distracting the other three. No one notices when he slips out of the _Times_ office a few minutes early.

It's already getting dark out when Jon leaves. He supposes it's appropriate. The streets are busy with people going home from work, though Jon managed to catch a cab quickly enough. The driver does give him an odd look in the mirror when he asks to go to the old Hither Green chapel, but she doesn't say anything about it. She probably thinks he's a member of the church, based on how she doesn't look at him at all when she asks for the fare and how quickly she drives away. Even if Shroud and his ilk are viewed as heroes in Scion City, people tend to find them rather unnerving.

Jon finds that he does too, standing before the wooden front doors of the chapel. The streetlights aren't enough to illuminate any part of the chapel, leaving the whole building cloaked in shadow, its imposing shape dark and indistinct. It isn't a large building, though people say that it's bigger on than it looks. The windows on either side of the doors are all covered in heavy black curtains, letting in no semblance of light. Jon pulls out his torch and turns it on, even if he knows it won't work as soon as he goes inside.

He's not sure if any of his plan will work, actually. He's fairly certain that Shroud won't kill him — even if he is part of the Entities, it still isn't his style — but that thought alone isn't comforting. Being used as a host for possession by Shroud isn't exactly a pleasing thought. Shroud and his followers have assured the public that his only hosts are willing members of his church, but Jon knows better. There's no better way to keep someone quiet than taking control of them. But Jon needs answers, and this might be one of the only ways to get them. He tries to hold onto that even with the dread building in his stomach and the cold fear creeping at the edge of his mind. He has to get answers, and this is the only way he can do that while making sure no one else gets hurt.

Jon stops stalling. He won't be able to get any information out here, and the sky looks like it might start raining soon. Might as well go inside. He takes a deep breath and pushes open the double doors. The creak they make is muffled, as if the sound is underwater. As soon as Jon steps through the threshold, the sounds of the city outside go silent and his torch flickers and goes out. The doors slam shut behind him. He feels it more through the air against his back rather than the muted sound. Then all is silent and dark, except for Jon’s breathing, growing quicker with each moment he can see and hear nothing. He shakes the torch and hits it against his hand. It flickers back on for just a moment, enough to see the vague silhouette of another person before the darkness conceals them again. Jon wants to call out, to ask who’s there, but he can't make his mouth form the words.

Jon steps back, groping for the door, wanting to leave. He can't find the door. He barely took three steps in and now he can't find the door. It was right there, and now it's gone. He turns and walks forward, hands held blindly in front of him. Still no door. He _knows_ it was there, knows he walked in a straight line, knows there's no reason for the doors to be gone. The darkness feels like it's pressing in on him. He can't see, he can't hear, he can't find the goddamned door.

And then he can hear. He can hear voices, low and discordant and coming from everywhere. “Jonathan Sims,” they say.

He turns back around, even though the voices don't seem to have a source. “Who- what?”

His eyes don't adjust — can't adjust when there's no light — but he thinks he can see someone moving. Or some _thing_. “You know who we are, Jonathan,” the voices say.

“The congregation,” Jon says, trying the torch again to no avail. “Where is Shroud? I want to speak with him.”

Jon knows that he can see something moving, no matter how impossible that might be. “You are. I am one with my people,” the voices say, though Jon thinks he can hear one more distinctly now: deep and almost soothing in tone.

“Ah. Well, if you wouldn't mind, I have some questions-”

The voices laugh. “So many questions, Jonathan. You have many answers. You have too many answers. You cannot be allowed to leave with them.”

The sense of dread that has been building since Jon steps into the church turns into sharp terror, and Jon knows that Shroud is going to attack him. He feels for the door again, even though he knows it won't be there. So he goes forward instead, forcing himself to move even as his body screams to stay still and wait until he can see. The sound of laughter comes from all around him and he can't tell where any of the people are, if any of them exist at all. Then the laughter stops and everything is filled with deafening silence aside from the distant sound of rain on the roof. Jon tries the torch again. It turns on.

For one frantic moment, Jon can see. He can see curtained windows and wooden pews and a raised and rotting pulpit. The doors are still there, but that whole wall seems further away than it should be. The ceilings are high, too high for what the outside looks like. Despite all the voices, Jon can only see one person, a tall man in a well cut business suit and tie. It's difficult to see him with all the darkness, impossible to see any facial features at all, but Jon knows who he is. Shroud. And then he sees the tendrils of inky black liquid creeping across the floorboard toward him, and Jon knows what Shroud is trying to do.

Then the torch goes out again and all is smothered in darkness. Jon throws the torch at where he thinks he saw Shroud. He misses and the torch clatters away across the floor, flickering faintly and then vanishing entirely. Jon needs to get away from him _now_. He turns and runs, hoping to get far enough away that Shroud can't possess him. He gets maybe four steps before he collides with a pew, tumbling over it and down to the floor. He crawls across the floor underneath a pew a few ahead in the row, hoping that maybe it will be enough to hide for a moment.

He fumbles in his pocket for his phone. The light from the screen is dimmed and hard to see, but it's enough. He briefly considers calling the police, but that won't work. They've been getting fake calls all week about heroes doing some crime or another, and they wouldn't be able to respond fast enough anyway. Martin and Tim and Sasha are out of the question; he can't put them in more danger. There's only one person he can think of, and Jon _really_ does not want to contact him. But as he hears the crash of a pew being flipped over a short distance away, he realizes he doesn't have much of a choice.

He doesn't have time to make a call and wait for a response, and that would alert Shroud to exactly where he is even sooner, so Jon texts instead. He types in the number he memorized weeks ago after being given the paper it was written on, and types out a message as fast as he possibly can and sends it. ‘Hither green chapel in danger shroud.’ The Weaver had told Jon to call if he was doing something dangerous again, and this most definitely qualifies. Jon doesn't even know if the Weaver will come or if he would help, but it's the only thing he can think to do.

Except, of course, running.

As much as Jon wants to keep his phone out to use the torch, but he knows how bad of an idea that would be. He shoves his phone back into his pocket and slides across the floor underneath another pew. And not a moment too soon, as he feels the rush of air as Shroud flips the pew he was just underneath. Jon’s glimpse at the room before wasn't enough to understand the full layout, but if he remembers correctly, he should only be a few more pews away from the front. No matter what he does, Shroud is going to see him eventually. Better to get a head start.

Jon slides out from underneath the pew and jumps to his feet. He bolts in the direction he thinks the door should be, hoping desperately that maybe he can find it if he just runs long enough. He does run into something, but it isn't the door. Based on the rotting wood that snaps easily when he runs into it full speed, it’s probably the pulpit. His momentum carries him all the way through the thing, spikes of sharp wood digging into his sides as he falls to the floor. He scrabbles around, feeling desperately for something he can use. He finds a long piece of wood from the pulpit. He doesn't have time to test it for sharpness, but it will work well enough as a blunt weapon. If Shroud gets anywhere near him, Jon can hit him and run for the door in the right direction.

Then Shroud laughs. It's only him, not the rest of his church. Jon isn't sure if any of them were here to begin with, if they exist in any capacity. Shroud’s laugh is long and menacing, but it sounds almost genuine in nature.

“Oh, Jonathan,” Shroud says, and Jon can hear the grin on his face.

He's so close. He's too close. Jon screams and swings his improvised weapon at where he thinks Shroud is, but misses terrible and overbalances. He tries to right himself, but it's too late. A hand grasps him by the hair and wrenches his head up, and for a moment Jon thinks he can see Shroud’s face, a vague silhouette against the dark. Jon thrashes and tries to pull away but it doesn't work and he feels _something_ wrapping around him, something that feels like nothing and everything all at once. The darkness tightens around him, the crushing feeling of not being able to see or hear or move or do anything.

And then the hand lets go of his hair and a body falls to the floor. Not Jon. Shroud. For a moment, Jon thinks he's somehow beaten him, done something to stop him. Then his eyes adjust. He can see now, impossibly, even though there’s been no change in the lighting. He drops his piece of wood to the floor, even though he doesn't want to do that. He doesn't want to step forward like he does, he doesn't want to spread his arms like he does, he doesn't want to laugh with a voice that isn't his like he does.

But that doesn't matter. Because Jon is not in control of his body, is only an inhabitant now. A vessel. A thing to be used.

And just as surely as he feels the panic inside him, Jon feels his mouth — _Shroud’s_ mouth — lift in a smile. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We take a break from the continuous Martin torment of the last plot arc to return to our regularly scheduled Jon torment.


	19. Chapter 19

Jon has been in plenty of terrifying situations before, but being completely out of control of his body while being possessed by Shroud might be the worst. Jon can't do anything. He wants to run, but he can't. He wants to claw Shroud out of his head, but he can't. He wants to scream, but he can't.

And the longer Shroud has control of him, the more Jon can see. Well, not see, exactly, since it's all in his head. But there are thoughts there that are forming that are not his own. He can see himself standing at that rotting pulpit, preaching to a crowd of shadows. He can see person after person wandering into the chapel and person after person he takes over, exchanging an old body for a new one. He can see the shape of _something_ , something blurry and indistinct. Something that speaks with a voice that can barely be called a voice, something that glows faintly blue, something that is powerful and infinite and cold. Something that Jon knows (but it's not _him_ that knows) to be the Architect. Jon tries to push further, to understand more, but all of Shroud’s thoughts pull away and a bolt of pain shoots through Jon’s head. He wants to curl up on the floor and scream, but he can't.

“That’s not for you, Jonathan,” Shroud says with Jon’s mouth.

Jon feels Shroud pushing back. Feels him inside his mind, rooting through his thoughts, seeing what he wants to. Jon wants him out. Jon needs him out. Shroud sifts through Jon’s thoughts, looking for what he wants to know. He makes note of Jon’s alerting of the Weaver and asking for help. He pauses on Gertrude’s notes, finding exactly what Jon knows. And he pulls together all of Jon’s encounters with the Weaver. Shroud studies those intently.

At first Jon thinks Shroud might be analyzing the way the Weaver fights to give himself an advantage if the Weaver does come. But Shroud focuses more on the conversations, analyzing the talk in Jon’s apartment, the conversation on the rooftop. Shroud is trying to find something.

“Who is he?” Shroud asks through Jon. “We must know.”

As Shroud looks at more of Jon’s memories, Jon goes back into Shroud’s mind. It hurts, but he pushes on. He can't get back to Shroud’s thoughts of the Architect, but he can see some things. Shroud and Hellhound, a massive dark thing that even Shroud cannot fully see. Shroud and his shadows, his congregation, waiting in the chapel. Shroud touching the sides of someone’s face, darkness swirling around them both, until the other person vanishes and becomes a shadow sliding across the floor. Shroud looking through Jon’s head in his moment, his thoughts on the matter. _The Weaver is not us. The Eye knows, but this one does not._

Shroud seems to notice Jon in his thoughts again. “You should know who he is. You’re supposed to know the answer,” Shroud says, and Jon feels his mouth curl in frustration.

Jon focuses for a moment. Shroud can see what Jon is thinking. If Jon can ask Shroud questions while he's like this, he might be able to get answers without prodding into Shroud’s head. So he thinks as hard as he can: _Why do you want to know?_

Shroud shakes Jon’s head and sits down on one of the pews that wasn't flipped over in Jon’s attempts to hide. “That is a hypocritical question, Jonathan.” Shroud displays that moment in Jon’s apartment when Jon almost took off the Weaver’s mask.

 _Don't you know who he is?_ Jon thinks.

“No.” Shroud threads Jon’s fingers through tendrils of darkness that rise from the floor around his feet. “He is an anomaly. The Watcher will not tell me who he is.”

Jon is about to ask who the Watcher is, but Shroud’s thoughts put Elias’s face to the name before Jon’s question is fully formed. So instead he thinks _An anomaly?_

Shroud pulls Jon’s face down in a grimace. “He disrupted equilibrium. He does not belong to any of us.”

Jon’s thoughts stop in their tracks. That doesn't make sense. That _does_ make sense. It makes too much sense. The Weaver can't _not_ be part of the Entities; there's no way that's possible. There's no reason he should be different. But with everything the Weaver has done, it's the only explanation. Saving Jon so many times, luring Fireball to a place she couldn't hurt anyone at such a great risk, trusting Jon enough to come to him when he was injured, his gentleness and humanity in every conversation, jumping into the fight between Puppeteer and Fireball even when he hadn't needed to, stopping Puppeteer from killing Fireball, the guilt he felt over her death.

So Jon was wrong. The Weaver is a good person. He isn't like the others. And Jon, as always, made an assumption and ruined a friendship that he desperately wants to have, that he needs to have. Unless…

Is Shroud lying? He doesn't need to manipulate Jon. Can Shroud even lie to him when they're like this?

Jon is ripped from his thoughts by the sensation of himself laughing. _What’s so funny?_ Jon thinks.

“You _are_ paranoid, Jonathan. The Watcher told me about that particular quality if yours, but I must say, it is interesting to be inside your head. I am an honest man. I do not need to conceal my thoughts, aside from things you cannot be allowed to see.” Shroud flashes a blurred and fleeting thought about the Architect past Jon’s mind.

Jon reaches for that thought, but Shroud pulls it away. Another wave of pain goes through Jon’s mind and he wants to bend over and clutch his head and pull Shroud out and take control of his body. That still doesn't work. This pain is so much more than the last times, an agony that Jon is certain is going to tear his head in two. He wants to scream. He needs to scream. He still can't do anything. He is utterly powerless. Shroud has control of him in every conceivable way.

The pain slowly fades, though Jon can still almost feel it. He knows that Shroud can tear his consciousness apart if the need arises. This is the perfect opportunity to get answers, and Jon still can't do anything. Not that it matters at this point. Shroud’s old host is still lying on the floor, and Jon doesn't see him breathing. Jon doesn't know how he's going to die, exactly. Shroud needs a living body to possess initially, but it doesn't need to stay that way. If Jon dies, it won't matter to Shroud. _When_ Jon dies. Shroud doesn't need to eat or drink or sleep, doesn't need to avoid pushing a body past its limits, doesn't need to stop his body from getting killed. Jon is going to die trapped in his own body, completely alone except for the thing that's killing him. He doesn't want to die like this. He’s going to die like this.

Then he sees the shadows creeping across the walls spring to attention. The shadows are, strictly speaking, impossible; there is no light to make them and no people to cast them. They are something else, an extension of Shroud. They don't seem to be able to do anything in the physical world, but Jon can see in Shroud’s memories that they act as sentries, as a way to improve Shroud’s senses. They start to whisper, and Jon’s mouth moves with the sounds. He can't tell what Shroud is saying by hearing or feeling it, but he can reach into Shroud’s active thoughts.

 _Someone is coming,_ says the collective of shadows. _Someone is here._

Jon hasn't ever thought he would feel hope with the sound of a shattering window, but he does in this moment.

He knows who is here even before Shroud turns to see. The Weaver. Even after everything Jon said the last time they met, he's still here. Jon wants to smile. He _does_ smile. Shroud smiles. And that hope Jon felt turns to ice.

“Hello, Weaver,” he says, even as Jon tries his hardest to make it stop. “As timely as always.”

“Jon,” the Weaver says, breath ragged and panting. “What- I thought-”

“I’m fine,” Shroud replies, no matter how wrong the words feel in Jon’s mouth. “He's gone.”

The Weaver sighs and holds his sides. “You couldn't have- couldn't have told me that before I ran here?” he wheezes.

“I wanted to talk to you.” Shroud speaks through Jon’s mouth with that gentle familiarity Jon doesn't deserve to use anymore and Shroud has never earned.

The Weaver steps forward, and Jon watches as the shadows cluster around the broken window and blot out the meager rays of light that had been filtering through. “Oh?”

“I want to apologize,” Shroud says. “I didn't- I wasn't thinking straight last time we talked.”

Jon feels a flash of anger as he says those words. Those are supposed to be _his_ to say, now that he knows that he was wrong and the Weaver really isn't like the rest of the superhumans, and Shroud is stealing them from him. Jon may not be quick to apologize, may not be quick to do anything in a relationship, may be enough of a stubborn ass that he may never have apologized on his own, but Shroud can't just _take_ what he wants. Well, he can, technically, but Jon doesn't want him to. Jon won't just sit back and take it. He pushes into Shroud’s mind.

 _Tell me,_ he commands. _Give me what I want to know._

And Shroud does. Not willingly, of course, but nothing that’s happened to Jon has been by his will, so it's only fair.

Some of Shroud’s thoughts are too blurry to see, too sharp to touch. That doesn't concern Jon. He’ll take what he can.

Shroud’s name. Maxwell Rayner. Shroud’s life before becoming superhuman, an ambiguous blur of monotonous moments. Shroud's first encounter with Breekon and Hope. Riding in the back of a white delivery van. Meeting with a thing with a voice that is not a voice. Shroud becoming those snaking tendrils of pure darkness, taking his first host. Shadows, hundreds of them. People becoming those shadows, a congregation of darkness, a collective of lightless nothings to serve Shroud. Hellhound slinking around his feet like a loyal dog. Faces that flash past: Elias, Mayor Peter Lukas, the Flesh Hive, Fireball, Simon Fairchild, the Ringleader, Mr. Spider.

An idea. Equilibrium. Jon catches the string of that thought as it passes, pulls it into himself so he can see it. A balance. Perfect balance. Destroy. Rebuild. Terrorize. Comfort. Kill. Save. Tear the city down to create it again. Rebuild it into something better and bring it down again. Ever improving. Ever evolving. There can be no death without life, no life without death. Cut wounds to heal them over. Scarred skin cannot feel pain. Everything must be balanced. Equilibrium must be retained.

Another lance of agony shoots through Jon’s head, but he doesn't let go. He feels his mouth curl in a snarl. “Stop,” Shroud commands, pulling his thoughts away, trying to rid Jon of his control.

Shroud’s mind slips from Jon’s grasp. But Shroud slips too. For just a moment, Jon has control of his body again. He wants to double over, to hold his head as the pain seems like it will split it in half. He doesn't. He can't. He looks up at the Weaver and forces his mouth to speak his own words.

“Shroud. Possessed-” Jon’s words are cut off when Shroud wrests back control.

The Weaver stops in his tracks, hesitating an arm’s length away. “Jon?”

“I’m fine,” Shroud says, though it isn't Jon’s voice he says it with. It's the voice of Shroud underlined with the whispers of the shadows that surround them.

The Weaver steps back, his optics narrowing. “You’re not… You’re not Jon.”

Shroud keeps trying to talk, but his efforts to keep Jon out of his mind have made his voice stilted and wrong. “I am Jon. There is no one else I could be.”

The Weaver’s posture changes, squared and aggressive, his voice low and angry. “Get out. Leave him alone.”

Jon tries to regain control, but Shroud is gripping his mind too tightly. “You will need to try harder than that, Weaver. We do not abandon our new converts without a compelling reason.”

“I don't want to fight you.” The Weaver holds up his hands in what looks like a calming gesture. His hands are shaking. “But if you don't let Jon go-”

Shroud cuts him off with a sharp scoff. “You overestimate yourself, Weaver. You do not have a choice.”

Shroud forms the darkness swirling around him into sharp points, waving around him in the air. The Weaver adjusts his stance, ready to move as soon as Shroud does. Jon is caught in the middle of a standoff between them, trying to cling to his mind and the hope that maybe he’ll make it out alive.

All around them, the shadows laugh. 


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey thanks for a hundred kudos everyone! All your support has been really great!

This is bad. This is very, very bad. Martin doesn't even know what to do in this situation. He has to do something, but he doesn't know what. He can't hurt Jon. Except Shroud _is_ Jon right now, and Martin has no idea how to get him out. Martin can't do this. He can't be the Weaver, he can't fight Jon, he can't figure out what the _hell_ he’s supposed to do right now.

He can't do this. _He can't do this_. This is all wrong. Everything is all wrong. This shouldn't be happening. Things are supposed to be okay now. Martin was never going to be the Weaver again and everything was going to go back to normal (well, as normal as things can be when your boss can murder you whenever he wants) and everything was going to be okay. He shouldn't be here. The only reason he is here is because he'd been in his flat and he'd never gotten around to throwing away the phone he used as the Weaver and Jon had said he was in trouble and Martin couldn't just _ignore_ that. But he can't help. All he does as the Weaver is make things worse and if he screws this up like last time he's going to _kill Jon_.

Martin wants to run. He won't have to fight Shroud if he runs. But he can't abandon Jon, not like he had with the Flesh Hive when she attacked the _Times_ office. He can't go back to being Martin the coward, who runs away while his friends are in danger. He's the Weaver right now, and the Weaver might be a terrible person, but he's not like Martin. He's not a coward.

Martin is so caught up in his panic that he barely reacts fast enough when Shroud attacks.

Martin isn't exactly sure what happens. He knows there's something surrounding Shroud, long and sharp and coiling things, but it's so hard to feel anything in here. There's no light, no sound except the sourceless laughter. Even the sense Martin has through the webs is muted and difficult to reach. Still, he manages to feel something coming for him and dives out of the way before he's speared through the chest. Something cold and cutting slashes against his side, and Martin fails to bite back a scream. It feels _wrong_. It's so cold and so empty and there's something else inside of it, on the other side of it, trying to push into Martin, trying to get into his head. It's almost a relief when the warmth of his blood pushes out the cold.

Martin springs back to his feet, putting pressure on his bleeding side with his hand. Shroud doesn't try to attack him again, at least not right now. Instead, he just laughs.

“Jonathan thinks you are more impressive than this, Weaver. I must say I’m disappointed.” Shroud is back to using Jon’s voice now, and it sounds more wrong than the distorted voice he had before.

Shroud slashes at Martin again, cutting a deep line across one thigh. Not an accidentally glancing blow like the last time, but deliberate, shallow enough to not seriously injure him but deep enough to hurt. Shroud is toying with him. The laughter that echoes throughout the church gets even louder, louder than anything in this strangely dull and muted place should be. Martin wants to curl up on the floor and cover his ears and wait for it all to be over. Instead, he backs away from Shroud as quickly as he can, trying to get a better read on what he can use in the church.

It's still difficult to feel anything and even more difficult to concentrate, but Martin does manage to get a decent layout before Shroud comes close enough to attack him again. There still doesn't seem to be a door, which Martin had seen from the outside. There's the pews, most of them knocked over or rotted near to pieces. There's something smashed near the front of the church and a body laying near it, probably Shroud’s old host. And there's the windows. The curtained windows.

Right. Those will help. Martin makes note of the nearest window, then shifts his focus to Shroud. Martin doesn't like it. Shroud feels like Jon, _is_ Jon, but he's also wrong, somehow. He feels wrong. The shape of Jon is there, everything in its place, but he feels… empty. Like Jon isn't really there. The things that are coming out of his back, the snaking, slicing pieces of tangible darkness, those feel like even more nothing, like they're actively pulling away reality around them. But they are real. They're not part of whatever reality Martin’s webs come from. They're physically a part of Shroud, and that means that Martin can physically stop them.

Shroud is getting closer now, his walk slow and casual. Martin waits until he's almost close enough to attack again, then springs upward, ignoring the burning in his wounded leg. He pulls a web through and uses it to jump up to near the roof of the chapel, which is much higher than it should be. Shroud looks up. He's too far down, and he has no way to fight Martin vertically. The tendrils of darkness thrash, not quite long enough to reach Martin.

This time it's Shroud’s turn to not react fast enough. Martin drops, twisting in the air to avoid the darkness Shroud tries to catch him with, ripping the curtains off the window as he passes by it. He hits the floor hard, impact sending jolting pain through his legs, but he ignores it. He dives forward across the floor, coming up in a roll behind Shroud and throwing the curtains over him, aiming more for the darkness rather than Jon’s body. The curtains are long enough to catch most of the whipping strands under them, but a few worm out from under the fabric as Martin wraps webs around the curtains to secure them. Martin manages to tie enough webs around the curtains to keep Shroud from tearing them open, but he doesn't get away fast enough.

The pain when Shroud stabs him through the upper arm is enough to drive Martin back to the floor, crying out and tearing at the tendril embedded in his flesh. The feeling of his own blood arcing through the air as Shroud pulls his tendril back out is overwhelming, sending Martin’s head spinning and reeling. The cold and emptiness is so much worse now, and Martin feels something creeping in at the edge of his mind. There's a whispering at the edge of his consciousness, imploring him to let it in, to let go, to give up. Martin clutches at the wound with one hand and uses the other to reach for a web, pulling it through and looping it around the tendril as Shroud tries to stab him again. It's surprisingly easy to sever as Martin pulls the web tight.

The sound Shroud makes is not a scream. It's more of a keening wail, a high tone echoed by the walls of the chapel and whatever it is that's been laughing the whole time. Those things have stopped laughing. Shroud’s other tendrils stop trying to wrench free of the curtains and Jon’s body slumps, not quite falling but not quite standing. Shroud goes quiet after a moment, and suddenly Jon feels… different. Not quite as empty.

Martin struggles to his feet, warily keeping track of Jon’s movements. Because that isn't Jon, and if Martin isn't careful… His stab wound pulses almost as if for emphasis. Manipulating webs on such a small scale is difficult, but Martin manages to fashion a compress of sorts, clenching his teeth as he binds the wound. The bleeding is bad, but not bad enough that he's going to pass out or die. At least, he doesn't think so. It's hard to tell. It hurts. It hurts a lot. It's hard to move his arm much at all. It doesn't matter. He has other things to worry about.

Martin can hear Jon breathing. Aside from Martin’s own ragged breaths and the muted sounds of rain and thunder outside, that's the only sound in the chapel. The laughter has ceased and Shroud is silent.

Then the curtains slump to the ground. Martin’s heart stops and his breath catches and he instinctively reaches out with the webs, frantically trying to sense what's happening. Nothing. Not Shroud’s nothing, but true nothing. Shroud’s tendrils of darkness are gone. Maybe Martin really did injure him badly enough.

Martin takes a step toward Jon. “Jon?” he asks, the quiet words shattering the heavy silence. “Are you-”

Jon just moans quietly.

Martin moves close enough that he can catch Jon if he collapses completely. “Just hold on- hold on for another couple minutes, I’m going to figure something-”

Jon grabs Martin by the shoulders and rams him with a headbutt.

Pain explodes through Martin’s whole head and he staggers backward and out of Jon’s grasp. He holds his face with the hand of his good arm, trying to see if anything’s broken. It’s hard to tell. Everything is kind of spinning and blinking and it's very hard to feel anything at all. He falls back to one side, catching himself with his bad arm and screaming when pain shoots through his stab wound again.

Jon — no, Shroud — laughs. “Maybe you _are_ more capable than I believed.” He kicks Martin in the ribs, sending him sprawling on the floor. “Or maybe not.”

Martin materializes a web to pull himself to his feet with one arm. He really wants to lie down and wait for the pain in his head to go away, but he can't do that yet. Shroud tries to hit him with a wide punch to the side of the head, but Martin ducks under it easily, and the next several hits that come after it. Shroud contorts Jon’s face with a nasty sneer. The laughter doesn't come back, but the walls fill themselves with amused whispering.

Shroud stops coming toward Martin. “You want to keep yourself from hurting him,” he says, almost amused.

Martin doesn't answer. He looks for a way to fix this. Shroud has withdrawn entirely inside Jon, either because he's too weak to maintain an outside form or because he knows Martin can't touch him like this. Or both. Either way, Shroud is right. Martin can't risk hurting Jon. And there's a panic rising in him now, even stronger than before. Puppeteer’s death had been accidental, and it hadn't been Martin who had done it, but now that he's done something like that, he can't be sure it won't happen again. Can't be sure that it won't happen here.

The panic is enough to slow him down. Shroud hits Martin with a quick punch to the jaw, then reaches out with his other hand and grabs onto Martin’s injured arm. The entire world spins as Shroud digs his fingers into the wound. Martin screams and tries to pull his arm away, but Shroud is strong, stronger than he should be. Martin collapses backward onto the floor and Shroud lets go.

And in that moment, Martin wants to let go. He's tired and in so much pain and he doesn't even trust himself to be able to do this. He wants to lay here and wait for it to be over. But he can't do that. _He can't do that_. He can't let anyone else get hurt because of him. He can't let Jon get hurt because of him.

Martin climbs back to his feet. Shroud tries to shove him down again, but Martin steps back out of the way. He pulls through a web in front of Shroud’s feet, one that he doesn't notice until he trips — Martin will apologize for it later — and falls to the floor. Martin uses those few seconds to limp a few paces away, enough to give himself time to think.

What is Shroud weak to? Clearly, cutting off the tendrils hurts him, but there's no way Shroud will let Martin have another chance at that. Hurting Jon won't do anything to Shroud, even if Martin was willing to do that. Martin could try to immobilize him, but his injured arm makes it harder to manipulate webs with that complexity, and it wouldn't do anything to actually get Shroud out of Jon. No one’s ever tried to get Shroud out of a host before, and Martin doesn't have the first idea about how to do that. What are members of the Dark weak to? What would stop them? Light?

Light. That's how the police fight Hellhound or the Bats or any other Dark superhumans. Strobe lights. A torch won't work, and neither will daylight or street lamps; Dark powers dim those enough that they won't do anything. But a strobe, something bright and flashing, that would be enough. That's what Lightning had done against the Hellhound when Daisy and Basira had witnessed their fight, even if it had been staged: he'd used the light he created to weaken the Hellhound.

Martin is markedly short on strobe lights. But, he realizes as he listens to the sounds of thunder and the rain hitting the roof and the wind whistling through the broken window, he does have something he can use.

He doesn't really want to throw Jon out of a window, but it's looking like that may be the best option, seeing as how the doors are probably sealed on the inside like they are on the outside.

Shroud gets back to his feet. He comes toward Martin, frowning but still walking with a certain amount of confidence. Martin makes a break for it. The cut on his leg isn't anywhere near as bad as the stab wound in his arm, but it slows him down. Luckily for him, Shroud seems to be taking his time. He's confident, sure that he's going to beat Martin because Martin can't fight back. Still, when he notices that Martin is going for the window, he breaks into a run to catch up. He's not quite fast enough.

Martin reaches the broken window. There's no light coming through, but the rain being blown in is enough to tell which one it is. Martin doesn't have time to be careful about this. He stops just before he runs into the window and turns around. Shroud doesn't have time to stop and opts for running bodily into Martin instead of trying to hit him again. Martin's back hits the windowsill and the cut on his side sparks with new pain. He ignores it. He gathers the corners of his cloak in his hands and wraps his arms around Shroud, hoping to protect Jon from the worst of the glass still in the window. Martin uses Shroud’s momentum to spin them both around and pull them both out the window.

They're both stunned as they hit the ground outside, Martin by the fresh wave of pain that shoots through his arm at the impact and Shroud by the light. Martin manages to keep ahold of Shroud with his good arm, even as Shroud struggles to get free. Shroud tries to get to his feet, but Martin kicks him backward, sending him back to the ground a few feet away from the window. He does get back up then, but it doesn't matter.

Shroud has already managed to dim the streetlights immediately outside the church, but he can do nothing against the lightning. The light is almost blinding to Martin too after the pure darkness inside the chapel, but that's nothing compared to what it does to Shroud. With the first flash, Shroud freezes, stopping in his attempts to get back inside. With the second, he begins to shudder. Martin gets up, putting himself between Shroud and the window. The rain is hard and the wind is strong and the thunder is practically deafening after the relative quiet of the chapel. As another bolt of lightning strikes, Shroud’s hold on Jon begins to dissolve.

Shroud's (or Jon’s, maybe) shout of pain is drowned out by the low roar of thunder. He doubles in on himself, clutching his head, eyes squeezed tightly shut. Darkness begins to leak out of Jon, snaking across the ground, cringing away from the light. As lightning strikes one of the nearby buildings, Shroud loses control. Darkness melts out of Jon in waves, slithering across the ground and back to the window, climbing up and inside the chapel. Martin lets it go until none of it is left. Jon falls to his knees, still holding his head.

He looks up at Martin, squinting and confused. Or maybe he just can't see, since he apparently lost his glasses at some point during the fight. “Weaver? You…” He doesn't finish the thought, just sways and falls back to sit on the wet grass.

“Jon?” Martin says, stepping away from the window to warily move closer.

Lightning flashes again. Jon doesn't even flinch. Shroud is gone. Martin breathes a sigh of relief.

Jon’s gaze shifts from Martin to stare dazedly straight ahead. “I think I… I think I need to lie down.”

Martin catches him before he slumps all the way to the ground. Without even thinking much about it, he pulls out his phone and calls for an ambulance, giving some vague explanation that hopefully they’ll actually accept. He's not sure if Jon needs it, isn't sure if anyone can actually help, but it can't hurt. It especially can't hurt if Martin can get the EMTs to help with his own injuries without taking him to the hospital. If they can't do that, he's fairly sure that he can get back to his flat and try to fix himself up. Probably. Either way, Martin’s going to wait here with Jon until the ambulance comes.

As Martin puts his phone away, Jon groans quietly and leans into him, one hand holding his head and the other clutching Martin’s hand, holding it tightly to his chest like it's a lifeline. As quickly as he can without disturbing Jon, Martin slips his cloak off and wraps it over Jon’s shoulders, half as a shield against the rain and half as a makeshift shock blanket.

Jon’s eyes shift back up the window. Martin follows his gaze and see the shadows shifting on the other side. Then the lightning flashes again and the shadows recede. Martin keeps a watchful eye on the window, just in case.

And as they wait there in the rain, Martin thinks he hears Jon murmur “Thank you.”

Or maybe it's just the storm. 


	21. Chapter 21

From: Timothy Stoker  
To: Scion City Police Department (click to see list of accounts)  
Subject: You Know What  
13th November, 2018 at 3:15pm

Look, cut the bullshit. I know you have those files. Last I checked, police reports are public fucking record. You’re supposed to be public servants, which means you don't get to withhold information from your citizens, especially your journalists. I have a goddamned right to know what the Ringleader and her cronies are doing. I don't care if you think it will screw up your investigation, I have a right to be there as much as you do. And I know that you know that.

All your files on Danny getting killed by that thing are public goddamned record. I can watch a video of that any time I want.

Go fucking figure.

(This email, as well as the several dozen that predated it and the several dozen that followed, never received a response.)

\---

Jon calls off work the next day. He's never had a headache this bad before in his life. The doctors hadn't been able to do anything for it. They'd given him plasters for the minor scratches and light painkillers for the headache, but mostly they just told him to get some bedrest. There isn't a protocol for treating someone after they're possessed, after all. Jon hadn't been inclined to believe them, but when he woke up at almost noon this morning barely able to get out of bed, he'd decided to take their advice. It hasn't really improved in the several hours he's been attempting to rest.

Not turning off any of the lights in his apartment probably hasn't helped matters. But it's not like he's going to be able to not have them on.

The fact that he hasn't actually been able to rest may also be making it worse. He can't help that he's been jumping at every oddly-shaped shadow or strange noise. He can't help the terrible boredom and the gnawing anxiety that comes with that boredom. If he isn't doing something that occupies his brain entirely, he can almost feel the foreign thoughts creeping in, hear Shroud’s voice in his head again. He knows that can't be true, knows that Shroud is back at the chapel and there's no way he could make it all the way to Jon’s apartment without a host, but the panic doesn't leave him. He tries to occupy himself by reading through some of the files he has, but it's difficult to read with his head hurting this much, especially since the spare pair of glasses he'd had to search for after his normal ones were lost the night before are apparently not quite the right prescription.

Calling the Weaver over to his apartment is really an inevitability. He doesn't want to be alone right now, but he can't talk to Martin or Sasha or Tim because they would ask questions he hasn't come up with a convincing lie for yet. That, and he has some things he needs to say to the Weaver. A lot of things he needs to say.

Still, it takes the better part of the afternoon to decide to talk with the Weaver and a decent portion of the evening to figure out what to say. He decides to text the Weaver again instead of calling. He doesn't think he can have a conversation over the phone at the moment.

‘I’m at my apartment if you want to talk. Knock this time. I don't think I can have any more broken windows before the insurance stops paying for them.’

It’s about half an hour before there's a knock on Jon’s door. Jon hesitates before opening it, unable to rid himself of the irrational idea that it's somehow Shroud who’s knocking. He does open it, and it isn't Shroud waiting there. It's the Weaver, holding his left arm close to his body but otherwise looking none the worse for wear. Jon can't see his body underneath the suit though, and he knows full well the extent of the injuries he gave the Weaver last night. It must still be bad enough that he can't climb much, seeing as how he's actually entering a place through the door this time. Still, the Weaver looks much better without his suit being bloodstained and torn. He even has the cloak back, despite the fact that Jon has the one the Weaver gave him last night draped over a chair.

“Hi, Jon,” the Weaver says.

“Ah, um…” Jon says, any trace of eloquence leaving him. “Do you- do you want to… come in and- and sit down?”

“Oh, uh, yeah, that would- that would be good.” The Weaver steps in and sits in the nearest chair, walking with a slight limp.

Jon shuts the door and takes a moment to think of what to say. “Are you- How have you… been doing?”

“Well, aside from- aside from the whole being stabbed thing, I've been fine. It was a bit difficult to come up with a convincing lie to tell my friends at work, but none of them suspect anything, at least as far as I can tell. So… I’m fine.” He looks up at Jon. “Have you been- have you been okay?”

“I’ve, um, I’ve…” Jon shakes his head and sits down in a chair opposite the Weaver, dragging it close until they're maybe an arm’s length apart. “I don't know.”

The Weaver says nothing, just nods to show he's listening.

This isn't what Jon wanted to talk about, but the words come out of his mouth before he can stop them. “I- I still feel like Shroud is here. I know he's gone, but I can't… I can't get him out of my head. To lose control of every part of myself like that, it… I thought I was going to die like that. Either I would have been trapped there until I eventually starved to death or- or you would have killed me.”

“I would never do that.” The Weaver’s voice is gentle, but there's a firmness to it. “I would never hurt you.”

And Jon knows that he's telling the truth. “I- I know. I’m…” The words catch in his throat. “I’m sorry.”

The Weaver tilts his head. “For what?”

Jon laughs drily. “A lot of things.” He leans forward in his chair with a heavy sigh. “I… I…” Shroud made him say it so easily. Why can't Jon say it on his own? Why is some part of him still trying to rationalize, to justify it, to never let him admit he was wrong?

“I know.”

“That's not…” Jon growls in frustration. “I want to… I want to apologize on my own. For real.”

The Weaver shifts uncomfortably. “You don't- you don't have to, if you don't want to.” Even without being able to see his face, Jon can tell that the Weaver is lying, not convinced of his own words, still prioritizing the way Jon feels over himself.

“No, I… After Puppeteer, I should have understood, but- but I didn't, and I treated you like that, and- and I…” He trails off. “There’s no- there's no excuse for… for any of it.”

The Weaver scoffs. “You thought that I was with _them_ , Jon. After everything the Entities have done to you, and to your friends, and to this city…”

“No. I treated you badly, and I had no reason to do that. I always wanted you to not be with the Entities, but… but I don't let myself trust anyone else, I suppose, after learning about… well, about everything. Not that that justifies any part of it. I should have trusted you.”

“You had no way to know.”

Jon pushes up his glasses and rubs the heels of his palms into his eyes, partially to alleviate the still-present headache and partially to recenter himself. “You don't have to make excuses for me. I'm the one trying to tell you that I'm sorry.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“No, you’re fine, you don't have to apologize.”

The Weaver laughs slightly nervously. “Um, sorry, I don't mean to- Shit, sor- Oh, goddammit.” He puts the hand of his good arm to his forehead with a small groan.

A smile creeps across Jon’s face before he redirects himself back into the seriousness of the conversation. “Would you like me to talk instead?”

The Weaver nods and waves his hand.

Jon takes a deep breath before starting again. “I made assumptions about you. The situation was… complicated, but the fact that I was so cruel after… after what happened with Puppeteer…” There's no reason this should be so difficult, but Jon knows he isn't doing this right and he has no idea how to fix it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for not trusting you, and for saying those things, and for asking you to come help me after all of that. If there's anything I can do to- to make it up to you…”

The Weaver waits a few seconds before responding. “You don't- You don't hate me now, do you?”

“What? No. You saved my life, Weaver,” Jon says. “You've saved my life multiple times, even when it would have been easier to just leave me. I don't hate you. I want… I want to be your friend again, if you'd let me.”

The Weaver makes a noise that sounds like a sigh of relief. “Okay… okay. That, um, that helps some things.” He looks down at the floor, then back up to Jon. “The things you said… I don't think that helped with- with everything else that happened that day. And I won't- I can't pretend that it didn't hurt me, but… I do want to still be friends, Jon.”

Some of the tension and anxiety that has been coiling endlessly inside of Jon for three weeks begins to dissolve. “That's… that's good. I- I, um…” He sighs. “Are you- are you doing alright? After… Puppeteer, I mean.”

The Weaver hesitates. “I’m… I don't know. I wasn't- I wasn't really comfortable with this-” he gestures to himself “-with being the Weaver, after learning what all the superhumans are, and it got worse after… after I killed Puppeteer, but now… I don't know. I thought I was going to kill you. I didn't think- I don't know. I thought I was going to make a mistake again.”

Maybe Jon can try this conversation again, make it right this time. “Puppeteer wasn't your fault. You said that Fireball was the one who killed her.”

“I know,” the Weaver says with a note of frustration. “I _know_ that, except- except I can't… It doesn't make it better. Even people like that, people like Fireball and Puppeteer and all of them… I don't want anyone to die, and then- and then someone died because of me anyway. How am I different from them if I let someone die like that?”

“Because they can do it without caring,” Jon says. “No one with the Entities would have given Puppeteer’s death a second thought.”

“Well, of course you say that _now_ ,” the Weaver snaps, then shakes his head and looks at the floor. “Sorry. I’m- uh, I’m… I’ve had a long week.”

“It’s alright. But I do mean it. You- you care about people, and that's enough to make you different. And you aren't with them. Shroud was… When he was… controlling me, I could read some of his thoughts. The Entities know you aren't with them, somehow.”

“Yeah, I know. I don't- I just don't understand any of it. None of it makes any sense.”

Jon hums in agreement. “I know the feeling. It's why I went to Shroud. I suppose it would have been better for all involved if I hadn't gotten possessed, but as it stands… I learned enough, I think. And even if he hadn't said anything about you not being with the Entities…” He sighs, takes a moment to collect his thoughts. “You could have died. What Shroud did — what he made _me_ do… And you still didn't hurt me, even after everything that I said to you… You’re a good person, Weaver. No matter what happens, you've saved people. You've saved me.”

The Weaver is silent for a long moment, tapping his fingers against the side of the chair. “Yeah, I, um… I guess- I guess I have.”

Jon nods. “You have.” After another long silence, he adds, “Thank you, Weaver. For saving me, and for- and for forgiving me.”

“Well, we’re friends, aren't we?” The smile is back in the Weaver’s voice. “That's what we do. We forgive each other, and we save each other.”

Jon smiles back at him. “I think you may do most of the saving.”

The Weaver shrugs, then inhales sharply as he moves his injured arm. “I am the superhero. It’s kind of- kind of what I do.” He pauses, then continues quietly. “Yeah. That is what I do. I help.” Then, more confidently: “I help.”

They both sit in silence for a while. It's not an uncomfortable silence, not awkward, or at least, not overly so. It's almost nice. No, it is nice. They've run out of things to say, wrongs to right, apologies to be made, fears and anxieties to confess. Things are alright between them now. Jon has learned his lesson and admitted his mistake, and the Weaver has forgiven him for it. Things haven't been fixed, not completely, and they may never be exactly the same, but they can move on. They can learn to move past it. They can help each other. They can save each other.

“Could you…” Jon asks after a time. “Would you be willing to stay here for- um, for a while?”

“Oh, I, um- I don't-”

“I just… I don't want to be alone. After Shroud,” he adds by way of explanation. “It’s, um… It’s difficult to be alone in my head.”

For a moment, Jon is worried that he's been too forward. He's asking too much, after they only just made up. He's showing weakness, vulnerability, and maybe their relationship isn't repaired to the level he can do that. He shouldn't need to ask for help; he should be able to deal with it on his own. The Weaver shouldn't have to deal with Jon’s problems on top of everything he’s going through. Jon is taking up the Weaver’s time, stopping him from doing something more important-

The Weaver interrupts Jon’s panicked thoughts with his answer. “I can stay. Not like I can do very much with my arm like this.” He seems to sense Jon’s concerned comment and adds, “Really, it's fine. It should- it should be healed in the next few days. And I… and I don't mind staying here. Not at all.”

“I… Thank you.”

“Of course, Jon. I’m always here if you need me.”

Jon doesn't even have to think about it before he says “And so am I.”

As Jon sits there, looking at the Weaver — his friend — he realizes that for the first time that day, his head doesn't hurt at all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey it turns out I am capable of writing things happening that are nice! And I can put it up when everyone (including me) is upset about canon events! Who knew?


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey did you read chapters 19 and 20 of this fic? Would you like an even angstier version of those chapters? No? Yeah you do. So you should go read this fic-of-a-fic written by my friend sarkomi [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18075284). It's really good and all of you should go check it out!

After finding Gertrude’s notes, Jon would never have entertained the possibility of anything being normal ever again. But now, barely three days after being possessed and nearly dying, things seem almost normal. Of course, there's still the threat of imminent murder from Elias, and having knowledge about the city that almost no one but murderers possesses, and Jon still can’t sleep with the lights off, but it's more normal than it has been for the past month.

Which, of course, makes it the day that the others learn that Jon went to go talk to Shroud.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Sasha asks after he gives a quick summary of the event, sounding as angry as Jon’s ever heard her as she leans over his desk.

“I don't think he was,” Tim comments from his position leaning against the doorframe.

“I thought I would just be able to talk to him. Shroud has always been much more reserved; I didn't think he would possess me,” Jon explains.

“ _Talk_ to him?” Sasha exclaims incredulously.

“You could have gotten hurt, Jon,” Martin says, leaning around Sasha to make eye contact. “Or worse.”

“I didn't, though. I'm fine,” Jon says.

“Depends on your definition of fine,” Tim says.

“Jon,” Sasha says, crossing her arms. “I had to find out that you almost died from an anonymous forum of cab drivers talking about their weirdest passengers. Why the hell didn't you tell us?”

Jon sighs, resting his elbows on the desk. “I didn't- I didn't think it would… go as badly as it did, and I didn't want to put unnecessary stress on any of you.”

Tim snorts. “Too late for that.”

“We could have helped,” Martin says.

“Or we could have told you not to do that in the first place,” Sasha says.

“Which is why I didn't tell you,” Jon replies. “We all have our own work to be doing, and I don't need to involve anyone else in mine.”

Sasha looks down at him, radiating disapproval and… something else. Hurt, maybe? “We’re a team, Jon. We work together.”

“I'm the reason all of you are involved with this in the first place,” Jon says, matching Sasha’s frustration. “I'm the reason you’re all in danger from Elias, and the superhumans, and everything else.”

“Then why do you keep getting further into it?” Martin steps around Sasha to be closer to Jon. “Why don't you just let it go?”

“Because I can't!” Jon snaps, then sighs and shakes his head. “I don't- I don't know. I don't know.”

No one responds, because they all know. They all feel the same thing. Not to the same degree as Jon, obviously, nowhere near it, but in the moments of offhand comments and shared looks and poorly laid plans made together, he knows. That gnawing hunger that curls inside of him, that drives him to search for answers even when it's dangerous, even when it's almost assuredly going to get him killed, the others have felt it too. They may have a different name for it, a different rationale they hide it behind, but they do know what that terrible _need_ feels like. They all know that there's no explanation, no true reasoning behind it all. Just the need, the compulsion, the endless search for answers.

The four of them look between each other, locked in an understanding. Tim is the first to move, wordlessly leaving the office, shaking his head. Martin looks at Jon with concern. Sasha leans back on one leg, looking up at the ceiling with a sigh.

“Well,” she says, breaking the heavy silence, “did you at least find out something useful?”

Jon pushes up his glasses. “I'm not… I'm not really sure. There was… It was a lot.”

“What was it?” Martin asks.

It doesn't take much for Jon to recall. The foreign memories are still clear and distinct and terrible. “The Architect. The thing mentioned in Gertrude's notes. It's real.” Sasha gestures for him to elaborate. “I don't- I don't know what it is, or what it wants, or- or anything about it. It… It’s in charge, I suppose. It's the driving force behind the Entities.”

“Yeah, Gertrude said something like that in her notes,” Sasha says. “You’re sure that you didn't get anything else about it?”

“Only that Shroud didn't want me to see it. I could go back and ask again if you'd like to know more.”

It's clear from Martin’s worried look and Sasha’s glare that Jon’s attempt at a joke was not much appreciated.

“Elias is something called the Watcher,” he continues. “He… knows things, apparently, and that knowledge isn't necessarily shared with the other Entities. They do seem to know who we are though, if Shroud’s eagerness to kill me is anything to go by.”

“Ah,” Martin says. “That's… that's not good.”

Sasha pinches the bridge of her nose. “Okay… Okay. What else is there?”

“Equilibrium.” Jon looks down at his desk for a moment, not entirely sure how to convey the concept in words that make sense. “It’s… a balance. Without the supervillains, there would be no need for superheroes, and vice versa.”

“And without the superheroes and the supervillains…” Sasha says.

“There is no Scion City,” Martin finishes.

Jon nods. “It makes Scion City into Scion City. It makes the city stronger. When someone like Fireball or Sky Blue or the Ringleader tears the city down, someone like Puppeteer or Lightning or Shroud is there to build it back up again. And every time that happens, the superhumans become more ingrained in the way we live.”

“Well,” Sasha says. “Shit. You’re sure about all of this?”

“Yes.”

“Alright.” Sasha exhales and steps back from the desk towards the door. “Alright. I'm going to go get coffee and… think about things. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone.”

She shuts the door behind her.

Martin shifts awkwardly, his movements a bit stiffer than usual. Apparently he fell down a flight of stairs the same night Jon went to Hither Green chapel. Jon would be a little irritated that Sasha didn’t fuss over Martin at nearly the same level she does it to Jon, but he supposes that falling down stairs is a bit different than getting possessed.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Martin asks after a moment.

“As much as I can be after being possessed. I’m fine, Martin. You don’t need to worry about me.”

Martin sighs. “Please just- just be careful, Jon. I don’t want you getting hurt.”

“I- I know. I just- I can’t let this go. I’m so close to finding something. I need to know what’s going on. I don’t- I don’t understand why I need to know, but…” He trails off, unsure of what to finish the thought with.

“Just tell us next time. We can help, Jon. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I know.”

Jon is lying, of course. He does have to do this alone. He can’t hurt the others again. He’s done so much to them already. It’s his fault that Tim was attacked by the worms. It’s his fault that Sasha was nearly torn apart by the NotThem. It’s his fault that Martin was traumatized by the Flesh Hive. It’s his fault that Elias is a threat to all four of them, that he’s already gone after Martin, that he has a reason to kill any of them whenever he wants. It’s his fault that Tim’s renewed his crusade against the Stranger. It’s all his fault, his incessant need to learn, his inability to know when to stop. Jon won’t hurt them again. He can’t.

But he can’t stop either. So he has to do this alone, even if it means keeping secrets from the rest of them.

They might be angry that he went to Hither Green alone, but if they had come with him… He doesn’t even want to think of what could have happened.

Martin doesn’t seem convinced, but he says, “Just try and stay safe. Please,” and walks out of the office.

Jon lets out a long breath and leans back in his chair. He’s tired. He’s very, very tired.

He starts to go through some of his files again, looking for something he may have missed, but is interrupted only a few minutes later by Martin’s call of “Jon!” from the office lobby.

Tim is sitting at the main table, with Martin leaning over him. Both of them are staring at Tim’s laptop, which Jon can hear playing some sort of video. Neither of them look up as he circles around to see what’s going on. It looks like a live news broadcast from one of the local studios. The text is scrolling along the bottom, but it’s a string of random letters and numbers rather than actual words. The camera trained at the weather board. Except it’s not showing the weather.

It’s showing a corpse.

Jon isn’t familiar with the anchors of all of Scion City’s news outlets, but it would be impossible to tell who this person is anyway. Their body is so torn and mutilated that it’s hard to recognize that they were even once human. The corpse is bloody. The entire room is sprayed with blood, red splashed over the forecast for the week. After looking for a moment, it’s easy to see why: the body doesn’t have any skin.

“Shit,” Jon breathes as he wills himself to not turn away, nausea rising in his stomach.

The feed cuts back to the main studio. Jon already knows who this is, but the sight of the culprit makes dread rise in him all the same. The Ringleader. Her plastic body is dressed in her usual circus costume, what parts of it that aren't already red covered with enough blood to make it so. Her bullwhip is curled around her right arm and she holds her hat in her left hand as she bows theatrically to the camera. She straightens again, putting her hat back on, and leans close to the camera. She doesn't have a mouth, not _really_ , but Jon gets the distinct impression that she is smiling.

“Welcome back, everyone!” she crows, reaching out to tilt the camera slightly.

Someone on the broadcast moans. There’s no one else on screen, but it sounds like they’re dying.

“Welcome back to, oh, which one is this again?” The Ringleader leans out of frame, still talking. “Oh, don't be like that, now. Your vocal chords are still there, after all. Which channel is this?” Then, a few seconds later, “I said: Which channel is this?”

There’s only another moan is response.

“Which channel _is_ this?” Jon asks. “Where is she?”

“SCTV,” Tim answers, not taking his eyes of the screen.

Over the laptop, there’s a sickening squishing sound and the camera drops to the floor. A peeled and bloody arm falls in front of it. Martin groans and puts a hand over his mouth. He mumbles something about having to leave and walks over to the lift, looking as ill as Jon feels. Jon would worry, but he knows that Martin is the only one of the four of them with enough sense to not go anywhere near the Ringleader. That, and Jon’s attention is entirely transfixed on the Ringleader’s broadcast.

“Oh well,” the Ringleader says, picking the camera up and aiming it at her… well, it’s not really a _face_ , is it? “I suppose it doesn’t matter what channel we’re on. My message is being broadcasted to everyone in Scion City by now, and I must say, it is… _refreshing_ to be back in the spotlight.”

She puts the camera back down, crooked and unstable. “Now, while I’m here, I might as well talk to my dear audience. I have a few questions for you all.” She leans down and pulls a bloody, mangled corpse up by the arm. “Do you think I would look better wearing Lottie’s dress or Lottie’s skin?”

Tim slams the laptop shut. “Fucking found her,” he says, voice a low and angry growl.

“Tim.” Jon grabs Tim’s arm as he stands, knowing exactly what he's planning to do. “Don’t.”

Tim pulls his arm away. “Oh, please. Don’t act like you wouldn’t do the same thing. Except I’m going to actually be _doing_ something.”

“You’re not going to do anything except get yourself killed,” Jon says, following closely behind Tim as he begins to walk toward the lift. “You don’t have any way to fight her and she’s virtually invulnerable. What exactly are you going to do?”

“Whatever I can,” Tim says. “It’s more than anyone else will do. We all know the superhumans won’t do shit, and the police don’t care. I think they’ve known where she is for months now, and they haven’t done anything. I’m the only person who will.” The lift doors open and he steps inside.

Jon follows Tim into the lift. “Your brother wouldn’t want you to do this.”

Tim freezes. For a fraction of a second, Jon thinks he’s persuaded him. Then Tim turns and reaches out and grabs Jon’s collar with both hands, lifting him up nearly off his feet.

“ _Don’t you fucking dare_ ,” he snarls, pulling Jon close to his face before dropping him and shoving him away and out of the lift.

Jon doesn’t try to stop him again except for a half-hearted call of “Tim, wait.”

Tim doesn’t listen. The lift doors close. Jon doesn’t move for a moment, trying to figure out what he should do. Tim won’t stand a chance against whatever the Ringleader has outside, much less the Ringleader herself. Jon wouldn’t either. Hell, he doesn’t stand a chance against _Tim_ if Tim is this angry. But he has to try and do something. He can’t just let this happen.

So he presses the call button on the lift and gets ready to follow Tim to almost certain death. 


	23. Chapter 23

Martin probably shouldn’t be trying to fight someone like the Ringleader with his arm not entirely healed, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to have a choice. The police won’t get there much faster than he can, even with the extra detour back to his flat for his suit, and it’s not like they would stand a better chance of fighting her. In addition to not actually being interested in stopping the Ringleader as much as keeping equilibrium, most of the superheroes are dead or out of commission. Lightning is arrested and barely qualifies as a superhero, Puppeteer is both dead and a murderer, and Shroud is injured and actively tried to kill both Martin and Jon only a handful of days ago. It’s up to Martin. It’s up to the Weaver. He can do this. _He can do this_.

He’s fought so many of the old guard superhumans before, and he won. Flesh Hive, Fireball, Shroud — he’s beaten all three of them. He’s saved a lot of civilian lives every time. Granted, about half of those are probably Jon just getting himself into trouble repeatedly, but the point still stands. Martin has won against powerful enemies. He’s saved people’s lives.

He just hopes that there are going to be people left to save. With the Ringleader, that isn’t very likely.

But he has to try.

That’s why, hesitant, scared, still feeling the lingering injuries from the last fight, he goes to the SCTV headquarters to try and find the Ringleader.

The streets by the headquarters are surprisingly empty. The crowds of spectators that superhuman activity tends to draw are hanging far away, wary of getting too close, even without police tape or the police themselves to hold them back. The Ringleader has more of a reputation than any other for selecting random bystanders to kill along with her additional targets. There’s sirens in the distance, which means that the police are on their way. It’s going to take them time to get here, though, especially with the growing crowds. Too much time. There’s one squad car already here, one that must have been close enough to come as soon as the broadcast went up, but it’s empty. The officers must have already gone inside. Martin hopes they’re okay. He doesn’t think they are.

Martin doesn’t prefer to enter buildings in the ground floor, but he doesn’t have much of a choice. He didn’t see the Ringleader through any of the windows when he circled around the outside, and SCTV is the largest news station in the city, which means the headquarters is too big of a building to search quickly enough. He’s going to have to go through and retrace the Ringleader’s steps, or find a map if they have one.

Still, that doesn’t make him any less apprehensive.

There’s a bloody handprint smeared down the inside of the glass doors. Before he can think better of it, Martin enters the building, steeling himself against what he’s going to find inside.

It’s bad. It’s very bad. Even for everything Martin has seen, hell, the various injuries he’s procured himself over the past few months, none of it compares to the sheer carnage that the Ringleader has created here. It’s hard to tell how many bodies there are. Some of them are police, but most of them look like civilians. People that worked at the news station. People who didn’t do anything. People who are dead. People who are dead in an awful, awful way. People who are going to be really difficult for anyone to identify, what with the state of them.

Martin wants to run. Doesn’t he always? He wants to run, he wants to get out, he wants to get away from these corpses with their exposed, frayed muscles, their slashes throats and their stabbed hearts and their bashed skulls and their crushed bones and their ripped flesh. And the _smell_ , the choking smell of blood, thick enough that he can taste it.

He has to keep going. He has to keep going.

He has no idea where the studio is. He has no idea where _anything_ in this building is. Lucky for him, there’s a set of footprints of blood on the tile, old enough that they’ve started to dry. They must be the Ringleader’s, made after she came down here to kill these people, so he follows them, keeping his eyes firmly on them, trying not to look against the shredded bodies on the floor and slumped by the walls and the one laying over the front desk that probably used to be the receptionist.

The footprints lead to a stairwell. Martin should probably be paying more attention to the layout of this building, but he can’t. If he loses focus, he’s going to start thinking about the dead bodies. If he does that, he thinks he might pass out. He’s already kind of lightheaded. The smell of blood is thick in the back of his throat and it isn’t exactly helping him breathe. At least there aren’t enough bodies by the stairwell that the floor is covered in blood. If he passes out, he’ll at least stay relatively blood-free, except for what’s already on him from some of the larger and unavoidable pools, the stuff that’s from people who are dead now, people murdered by the Ringleader, people whose bodies are here that Martin is seeing and he knows that he’ll never be able to get the image of them out of his head and-

Focus. He needs to focus.

Footprints. Follow the footprints.

It takes some effort to push the door open, not because it’s heavy but because he’d afraid of what he’ll find. As Martin enters the stairwell, he catches a glimpse of deep red and decides that he’s not going to think about what that is. He’s just going to follow the footprints that are going up the stairs.

Martin doesn’t bother climbing the stairs the normal way. Climbing up webs is faster, even if he feels his stab wound protesting despite the fact it’s close to healed. He just keeps his eyes on the footprints. Watch the footprints. Don’t look at the bodies, more of them on the stairs, broken and bloody. Don’t think about any of it. Just watch the footprints.

He’s so focused on not noticing what’s going on around them he nearly falls back down the stairs when he hears a voice call for the Weaver. He catches himself on the railway (the blood makes it stickier, not slicker) as his feet slip off the web he was standing on. He’s so addled that even though the person is right in front of him, leaning against a wall, he doesn’t process who it is for a few seconds. He steadies himself, putting his feet firmly onto the floor, and finally realized who this is.

“Jon?” he says, his voice coming out shaky and confused. “What- why- why are you here?”

Jon takes a moment to respond, leaning forward and breathing heavily. “Tim. He- he came to… to fight the Ringleader.”

Martin’s mind blanks. “What?”

Jon points at the footprints. “He’s going after her.”

“Why?” Martin’s voice squeaks much more than he’d like it to, but he’s been on the verge of a panic attack since he came in here so he thinks it’s justified enough. “What- He can’t- He’s not-”

“I know. I tried to… tried to follow him, but I guess I’m not really- not really used to running this far.” He laughs, nearly edging into hysteria before going into a fit of coughing.

“Okay. Okay okay okay.” Martin takes a deep breath. “Just, um- just stay here. Or- or get out of here. Please. I’ll find Tim, but you need to get to safety.”

Jon raises a hand and starts to object. “No, it’s- it’s my fault he’s here, I need to-”

Martin puts his hands on Jon’s shoulders to cut him off. “Jon. You can’t fight the Ringleader. If you try, she is _going_ _to_ _kill_ _you_. Please just let me deal with this.”

Jon hesitates, then sighs and shrugs off Martin’s hands. “Right. I- I trust you. I’ll go.” He starts to walk back down the stairs, then looks back up at Martin, his gaze intense and heavy. “Keep him safe.”

Martin nods, waiting a second to make sure Jon really is leaving, then continues on the trail of footprints. They’re much fainter now, only a couple splotches rather than a full print. They exit the stairs after another flight up, going through a closed door. This time, Martin doesn’t hesitate before pushing open the door. He doesn’t have time to hesitate. He _hasn’t_ had time to hesitate, he needed to be hurrying this whole time because someone might have been in danger even before he learned Tim was here, and the only reason he’s been taking so long is he doesn’t have a strong enough stomach to deal with all the gore and corpses. Maybe while he was sitting there like an idiot and reeling at what happened to those people the Ringleader was doing it to someone else, and it’s his fault, his fault that-

The footprints have disappeared completely. There wasn’t enough blood left to track. Martin has no way to find the Ringleader now; she could be anywhere in the building. A wave of fresh panic overtakes him. There are at least three floors below him and four above him. He doesn’t have time. He has to find out where she is right now, and he has no way to do that, unless he can somehow see the entire building, unless-

Maybe he can’t see it, but he can figure out where the Ringleader is.

He hasn’t ever really tried to use the webs to feel through buildings before. He did when he first got his powers, but it was too difficult to really do and he’s stuck to doing what he knows. But he’s gotten so much stronger since he first developed his powers. All he needs to do is close his eyes and reach into that other reality and let himself feel _everything_.

He can’t quite feel everything, but he’s close. He can feel all of the dead bodies in the SCTV headquarters, all eighteen of them. He can feel their blood. He can feel living people here too, several huddled in corners and under tables and inside cabinets, one leaving the building that is probably (hopefully) Jon, one that’s walking through the second floor opening all the doors, and one on the fifth floor that’s _wrong_. The Ringleader, doing some exaggerated, theatrical dance complete with twirling her whip around her like a ribbon. She’s in the studio. Martin can feel the camera and the corpse that must be the cameraman and the buttons on the camera and all of the machinery inside of it. He can feel the streets outside, filled with the empty police car and cautious spectators. He can feel every spot of blood on the walls and the floor. He can feel the air moving through the vents. He can feel the pigeons perched on the roof.

It’s so much. It’s too much. _It’s_ _too_ _much_. It’s too much it’s too much it’s too much.

He doesn’t realize that he’s bent over and clutching his head and whimpering until he finally pulls his senses back. It takes him a few seconds to reorient himself. Everything still seems like too much. Everything still _is_ too much. His head feels kind of fuzzy. Everything feels kind of fuzzy. It’s painful to be so confined to one body now, even more than it was to be feeling so far out of it. His body feels wrong, he isn’t in control of himself, he can’t sense any more but he can’t sense enough.

Breathe. He needs to breathe. He does. He breathes slow and deep and centering until he feels like he is himself and only himself.

And now he needs to go get the Ringleader. He probably can’t dissuade Tim like he had Jon, so the only option to keep him safe is to get to the Ringleader first.

It doesn’t take him long to get to the studio. He knows where it is now, and he’s not about to forget and force himself to feel that much again. He’s not sure if he can. The stairwell and the hallway up to where the Ringleader is are both mercifully free of bodies. Then he opens the door to the studio, enters, and closes it behind him.

There are definitely bodies here. Martin can’t look at them. Instead, he scans the room for the Ringleader. No sign of her. Just the five corpses, all of the equipment, a green screen, the camera, the lights, the table — everything is scattered and messy, but there’s no crazed, sadistic mannequin around. He does another spin around to look, not wanting to use his webs to sense again, trying to figure out where she might have gone. Then he sees the door, the one he came in from. It’s open. He closed it. He knows he did.

Then he hears a voice that sends a bolt of fear down his spine. “Oh, hello.  
Looking for me, are you?”

Martin turns. The Ringleader is there. She must have come in the door after Martin. She must have been hiding somewhere. She must have been waiting for him. The thought is terrifying. _She_ is terrifying. There shouldn’t be anything scary about her — she’s just a mannequin — but she is most definitely very, very scary. Maybe it’s the fact that she’s covered in blood, maybe it’s the blade-tipped bullwhip she has in a ready hand or the knives under her coat, maybe it’s her face that isn’t quite a face, maybe it’s the people she’s killed.

It takes a moment for Martin to force himself to speak, enough to devise a strategy. The Ringleader likes to talk. If he can keep her talking for a while, he’ll be able to figure something out. Maybe he can even learn something at the same time.

He tries to make his voice steady as he says, “Um, yeah, actually. Yeah, I was… hoping to find you here.”

The Ringleader laughs, carrying it on much longer than she needs to. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, little spider.”

Martin shudders at the name. It’s what Puppeteer called him right before she died. Does the Ringleader know about that? Is she taunting him?

But he can’t afford to think about that right now. “Y- yeah, um, you- you too.” He gestures at the bodies on the floor. “You’ve- you’ve killed a lot of people, Ringleader.” If he keeps it neutral, maybe she’ll just monologue and give him time to find something.

“Oh, please. We’re friends; you ought to call me Nikola. Nikola Orsinov.”

It seems that she’s trying to goad him into giving her his name, but Martin has no intentions of doing that. She waits patiently for his response, shaking her head when he doesn’t give one.

She looks at him intently for a moment longer, then continues, “This isn’t _that_ many people,” she says, shoes tapping on the floor as she steps closer. “And less of them would be dead if they had just cooperated with me. They were all so intent on spoiling my fun, and humans have such fragile bodies. They don’t tend to last very long once you start removing the parts. And what about you? What are you?”

“I’m the Weaver,” Martin says.

The Ringleader makes a clicking sound that would probably be made by her tongue if she had one. “I _know_ that. No, silly, what _are_ you? Are you human under there?” She reaches out toward his face with one hand.

Martin backs away, trying not trip over any of the bodies or equipment on the ground. “Yes- I, yes, I’m human.”

“Hm.” She looks almost disappointed. “How boring.” She sighs. “I know that you’re here to try and stop me. It would be adorable if it weren’t so… inconvenient.” She brightens suddenly. “Although… you’re less breakable than most humans I’ve come across for a while. I’ve been waiting for someone like you to come along.”

The camera. Martin can throw the camera at her. It’s only about an arm’s length away. It’s not a great plan, but he doesn’t exactly have time to make a better one.

“Why is that?” he asks, stepping backward.

Her face splits open as she grins. “To dance, of course!”

Martin reaches for the camera. He doesn’t get it. The Ringleader moves too fast. She flicks her hand and her whip wraps around Martin’s reaching arm. Martin isn’t quite sure what happens after that. His arm is wrenched painfully and his feet leave the floor and he ends up far away from the camera or anything else he can use. He hits something hard and cold and it takes a second to realize what it is. The Ringleader. This close, the smell of the blood on her is choking.

He tries to push himself away, but she locks her hands around his wrists. She shouldn’t be strong; she’s made of plastic. But he can’t pull his arms free. She laughs again, twirling around in circles and spinning Martin with her. He can’t get his footing. He can’t pull through a web if he can’t use his hands. Then the Ringleader releases one of his hands, sending him reeling outward and tripping over the legs of a body on the floor. She pulls him sharply back and he feels his stab wound tear open. He staggers and cries out, but she doesn’t let go.

She twirls him around once, then sways back, extending both their arms. Martin’s feet fall from under him and she stops him from hitting the ground by swinging him back into the wall instead. It stuns him enough that he barely reacts fast enough when he sees the flash of metal she pulls from her coat. The knife scrapes off the wall where his head had been a moment before, and he had hardly even seen her move. He uses the opportunity to try and kick her legs out from under her. She seems to notice what he’s doing and skips backward, letting go of his arm. He starts to steady himself and pull through a web, but she surges forward and wraps her empty hand around his throat and slams him back into the wall.

“Don’t be rude!” she says, pointing the knife at his face.

She draws her hand back. She’s going to try and stab him again. He reaches and materializes a web, wrapping it around the Ringleader’s arm. He pulls it at tightly as possible, not really gauging how much force he’s using. He knows he’s stronger than he thinks he is, but he still isn’t expecting the web to completely pop off the Ringleader’s arm.

Turns out she isn’t completely made of plastic. There’s some fleshy _something_ on the inside. It doesn’t seem to hurt the Ringleader so much as annoy her. She slams his head back into the wall again and his vision blurs and fills with spots. She drops Martin, who slumps against the wall, and goes to retrieve her arm, making some displeased comment that Martin doesn’t bother paying attention to. He focuses on the webs, careful to move his hands as subtly as possible. Too much movement and she’ll see him, and if he gives her a reason to kill him instead of toying with him he doesn’t doubt she’ll do it.

She’s reattaching her arm with a wet and gristley snap when Martin wraps a web around a microphone and its stand and flings it at her. She moves quick enough that it only clips her, sending her staggering but not much more. Martin doesn’t waste any time, materializing another web to swing the camera around and into her head. Head injuries are the only thing that works against her as far as anyone knows — they at least temporarily disable whatever allows her to control her plastic body — but hardly anyone is fast enough to actually hit her. She goes immediately completely still as the camera smashes into pieces on the floor, looking like a normal, lifeless mannequin. Then, just as quickly as she froze, she snaps back to life, moving just as fast as before.

Martin may have overestimated the effectiveness of this plan.

The Ringleader rotates her reattached arm and flicks her wrist. Martin moves out of instinct, and the whip snaps against the side of his face instead of wrapping around his neck, cutting through the suit and drawing a stinging line across his cheek. He tries to grab it, to get the worst of her weapons out of her hands, but she’s far too fast. She has the whip drawn back and cracking across his chest before he’s even fully lifted his arm. This time it slices deep and Martin can’t stifle the scream.

He’s still touching the bleeding line across his chest when the Ringleader’s wrist flicks again and her whip wraps around his leg and suddenly he’s on the ground. She drags him toward her, but he reaches out and pulls through a web and holds onto it, scrambling for purchase with his free leg. The whip wraps tighter, cutting through his suit and his skin. Martin doesn’t _think_ that she could sever his leg with it, but… Oh God, could she cut off his leg?

He doesn’t wait to find out. He flips over onto his back and stamps on the whip with his free foot, giving himself enough slack that he can afford to let go of his web with one hand. He materializes another line and uses it to pull the Ringleader off her feet. She actually falls, and Martin uses the time to unwind the whip from around his leg, wincing as he peels it away from the wound. He tries to yank it out of her hands, but she keeps her grip as she springs to her feet.

They engage in a brief tug-of-war, which the Ringleader wins easily. She reels Martin in toward her until he lets go. She stumbles briefly but regains her footing, this time not lashing out with the whip but running toward him, knife glinting as she draws it. This time, he’s able to move fast enough. He ducks underneath the Ringleader’s knife as she tries to gut him with it. He doesn’t quite manage to trip her — she’s far too agile for that — but he does manage to make her stumble and overstep and put some distance between them.

Martin has maybe half a second of celebration and relief before the Ringleader snaps back to face him, turning on her heel so fast he can barely see it, and he sees why this may not have been the best plan. She’s not any worse for wear, and now she’s angry at him. She’s very angry.

“You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” she spits.

Martin tries to draw through a web to stop her, but she snaps at his hands with the whip. He pulls them away in time, but she could probably have cut off a few fingers if she’d hit him. She advances on him and he tries to back away, but he doesn’t have too many steps to take in that direction.

“Not- not really,” he says.

She steps closer, too close, and then suddenly her hand is around his throat and she’s lifting him up in the air before he can react. He claws at her arm, but of course she doesn’t feel anything. He kicks at her, but her arm is too long for him to reach and he’s too weak to try more. He can’t breathe. If she squeezes any tighter, she could crush his windpipe entirely. She draws another knife and holds it next to his face.

“You are _nothing_ , little spider. I have reigned in this city for twenty years, and you think you can stop me? You really thought you could get the better of me?” She throws her head back and laughs as he chokes. “You really thought you could come in here and ruin my good time? You can’t do _anything_ to me.”

Then a new voice speaks, one that Martin knows but is too panicked to recognize. “No. But I can.”

Then there’s a gunshot, a deafening crack that reverberates through the studio. The Ringleader freezes. Her grip on Martin’s throat slackens and he falls to the ground, wheezing and trying to draw in air. The Ringleader falls too, collapsing onto her side, still in the same position. She’s not dead. She can heal herself quickly. She won’t be down long. Martin has to take a few seconds to be able to breathe again, his brain slowly trying to place the voice he heard. He realizes who it is just before he looks up.

Tim. He’s standing there, still holding a pistol he must have picked up from one of the dead police officers. He keeps it in his hands, breathing heavily, shifting his eyes from the still form of the Ringleader to Martin.

“Tim,” Martin says, voice ragged as he slowly gets to his feet. “You- you can put that down.”

Tim doesn’t. Instead, he raises the gun to point it at Martin’s head. “Why should I?”


	24. Chapter 24

“Tim,” Martin says again, more forcefully this time. “Put the gun down.”

“Give me one good reason,” Tim says, not wavering.

“Because she’s going to get back up soon. We don’t have much time.”

Tim lowers the gun, and Martin thinks for a second that he’s persuaded him. Then he puts another bullet in the Ringleader’s head and lifts the gun to point it at Martin again. “Problem solved.”

“Listen. I’m not the enemy here. She is.” Martin gestures at the five dead, mutilated bodies lying on the floor around the studio. “She’s the one that did this.”

“Right. And you’re the one who let it happen.” He grins, looking slightly unhinged. “Yeah, that’s right. I know about all your little secrets. What the fuck are you going to do about it? Kill me?” He looks down at the gun in his hands. “Oh, wait. That’s what I’m going to do to you.”

He won’t. Otherwise he already would have. Killing a person is a lot different than temporarily disabling a sadistic mannequin. Tim won’t kill him. Right? Tim wouldn’t actually shoot him, would he?

“You’re not thinking straight, Tim,” Martin pleads. “We can talk about this, just put the gun-”

“No!” Tim shouts. “You’re just fucking like the rest of them. You let her do this. You let her kill these people. You let her kill my brother.”

“I didn’t even have my powers then!” Martin protests. “I’m sorry for everything that happened, but I had nothing to do with it.”

“I don’t care,” Tim says. “Every single one of you is just as responsible for what happened. Every single one of you has let things like her do things like this. Maybe you didn’t kill my brother, but you sure have let a hell of a lot of people die.”

“I’m not like the rest of them.”

“And why should I believe you?”

Martin doesn’t know how to fix this. He doesn’t know how to convince Tim that he isn’t the enemy. He doesn’t know if he can. When Tim gets like this, there’s no stopping him. He just took down his brother’s killer and now he’s face to face with someone who’s been lying, who’s been covering up everything the superhumans have done to the city, who’s let atrocities like this attack happen. It isn’t true, but there’s no way to convince Tim otherwise; every other thing the superhumans have said has been a lie, why would this be any different? Tim is hesitating, of course — it’s certainly a big step to shoot someone in cold blood — but Martin doesn’t doubt that Tim could do it if he really wanted to. And he does seem to want to. Martin has no way to get him to stand down, no way to convince him to not do anything rash, no way to fix this, unless-

Unless…

It’s a stupid idea. Martin isn’t even sure if it will work, isn’t sure if it won’t just make matters worse. But it’s the only thing he can think of to do.

He takes off his mask.

“I’m not like them,” he says.

Tim stares at him. He slowly lowers the gun, still keeping it in his hands, mouth open, looking confused. He doesn’t say anything.

Martin wipes away some of the blood now flowing freely down his face from the cut across his cheek. “I’m not like them,” he says again.

Tim stares for a moment longer before he finally says “Martin?”

Martin smiles weakly. “Yeah.”

“Hold- hold on. Martin? What?”

“Yeah, I’m… I’m the Weaver. You’re not- you’re not still going to shoot me, are you?”

Tim looks at the gun in his hands. “No, I don’t… Hang on.” He pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. “So you’re… you’re the Weaver.”

“Yes.”

“I guess that… I guess that explains some things.” Tim looks back up at Martin. “You really didn’t know about any of-” he gestures around the room with the gun “-any of this, did you?”

“No. I promise.”

“Fine. Okay.” He takes a few deep breaths. “Shit.”

“I’m not with the Entities,” Martin says. “I didn’t know about any of this until you did, and I’ve been trying to stop things like her from hurting anyone else.”

“No, I believe you. I think. Fuck, I don’t know.” He pauses for a few seconds, begins to laugh, then sobers and says “You would have stopped us from finding the notes. Or you would have killed us. Hell, you were the one that… Shit, you’re really-”

Martin catches movement in the corner of his eye. “Yes, yeah, not with the Entities.” He points frantically at the Ringleader. “She’s getting up, she’s-”

Tim turns and stops the Ringleader from getting up by shooting her in the head again. “God _dammit_ ,” he says.

“The police should get here soon, but we need- we need some way to keep her down,” Martin says, then gestures at Tim’s gun. “Can you-”

“Yeah, sure, whatever.” He still doesn’t put the gun down, but he holds it at his side.

Martin closes his eyes and reaches into that other reality. He pulls through the strongest webs he can find, weaving them together as tightly as he can manage. It’s probably going to be annoying to the police if they have to pry the Ringleader off the floor, but it’s far better than having to fight her. It takes Martin nearly a minute to get enough web to hold her down, but he thinks it will work. The Boneturner hadn’t been able to break the webs, and he was relatively strong. Martin opens his eyes and looks back to Tim.

“I wish she could die,” Tim says, looking down at the Ringleader. “I want to be able to kill her.”

“I know.”

Tim scoffs. “You don’t.”

“I… I, um… I’m sorry, Tim.”

“Save it. I’ll deal with… whatever your shit is later. You should go.” Tim’s voice is clipped, but he doesn’t sound angry. At least, no more than usual. “Before I change my mind.” It’s another threat, but it doesn’t sound like his heart’s in this one.

“Tim?” Martin says.

Tim grunts in response.

“Would you- Please don’t tell Jon. Or Sasha. I don’t- I can’t-”

“Yeah, sure, I won’t,” Tim says, annoyance edging his voice. “Just go.”

Martin puts his mask back on, wincing as it touches the cut on his face. “Will you- will you be okay here? With her?”

Tim’s mouth curls in a feral, furious smile. “Oh, don’t worry. I’m going to be _great_.”

Martin doesn’t want to leave him. He wants to be there for Tim when Tim is facing the thing that killed his brother. But Tim doesn’t want Martin to be there, and Martin can respect that. He can leave Tim to have his revenge on his own, whatever that means for him. The Ringleader is down, and Tim shouldn’t be in danger. But Martin can’t just leave him completely alone.

So Martin stands just outside the door, battered and bloody and tired, and waits for the police to arrive. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Current writing paradox: Tim is probably the easiest character for me to write because of how distinct he is, but also the hardest character to write because how does dialogue work? I'm still not sure.


	25. Chapter 25

(For several days after the massacre at the SCTV headquarters occurring on 15th November, 2018, this message was all that was displayed on their channel and website.)

It is with heavy hearts that we at SCTV inform you that we can no longer continue to broadcast. The losses we suffered from the Ringleader have hurt us immensely, and those of us that remain no longer feel safe at this station. We would like to do nothing better than carry on the legacy of those who are no longer with us, but the risk of a future attack is too great for us to continue. Instead, we wish to honor their memories by making their names and faces the final message we give to you.

The staff of SCTV who were tragically taken from us far too soon: Charlotte Bridger, Andy Caine, Cindy Chavez, Leanne Denikin, Ashley Dobson, Gerald Douglas, Antonia Farron, Justin Fields, David Gonzalez, Thomas Kennedy, Jessica McEwen, Leona Mann, Megan Shaw, Sebastian Skinner, Peter Warhol, and Nathan Watts

And the courageous officers who gave their lives in an attempt to stop the massacre: Mark Goodman and Alicia Yang

(Below are eighteen pictures of the Ringleader’s various victims. These pictures and the message preceding them were the last thing broadcast by SCTV before the entire organization permanently shut down. The names and images of the deceased have since been hosted on various websites profiling the victims of the superhumans of Scion City.)

\---

Jon thought he had seen Sasha at her angriest when she found out about his visit to Hither Green. He was wrong.

Coming into work this morning, he hadn’t expected her to be this angry. She’d called the day before, several times, confirming that everyone was alive and unharmed during and after the whole Ringleader business. She’d come back to the office to find all of them gone and had been understandably worried. She continued to be understandably worried when none of them came back later. Tim had been stuck at the police station until nearly three in the morning, repeatedly giving his statement about what happened with the Ringleader. Jon had followed Tim and the police back to the station and spent the night trying to understand everything that happened. And Martin had apparently been knocked over and nearly trampled to death by the crowd outside the SCTV headquarters and had spent the rest of the night recovering. Sasha had called them all, and she knew they were all fine (or mostly fine, in Martin’s case). Jon didn’t expect her to still be angry about it the next day.

But she is. She is very much still angry.

Tim, Martin, and Jon are all sitting around the main table, awkwardly silent. Jon and Tim aren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment, and something clearly happened between Martin and Tim yesterday because Tim is glaring at Martin and Martin won’t make eye contact. None of them are working. None of them are talking. They sit like that for nearly twenty minutes before Sasha arrives for the morning.

And she’s not very happy.

She takes several minutes to put away her things in her office, then walks back out to the main table, placing both her hands on it and leaning forward. None of the other three makes eye contact with her. She waits a few seconds to let them sit in silence, then starts to speak.

“I’m sorry, but what the _fuck_?”

“We’re all fine, Sasha,” Jon says.

“Yeah, none of us got hurt,” Martin says, his voice thick and tired, then seems to realize that he has a plaster over half his face. “Not- not too badly, anyway.”

“You could have. You know what the Ringleader does; she could have literally skinned you!” Sasha says.

“Exactly,” Tim says. “And now she’s in the Tunnels. If I hadn’t been there, the Weaver would be dead and the police probably wouldn’t have caught her.”

“All of you just stop talking.” Sasha’s voice isn’t any louder than usual, but the anger underlining it is just as severe as if she were shouting.

Jon tries to defuse the situation. “Sasha, we-”

“No.” Sasha leans back from the table, her voice more raised. “You don’t get to ‘Sasha’ me. I left for twenty minutes, and then I saw that the Ringleader was murdering people, and then I came back and every single one of you was _gone_. All of you just- just shut up and listen to what someone else is saying for once in your goddamn lives.”

Jon wants to make a comment about how listening to other people is a good portion of their job, but figures this may not be the best time.

Sasha leans back from the table, crossing her arms. “I know that all of you are dealing with your own shit. I know that you all have problems, hell, I’ve been trying clean up your messes for the past month. I have problems with everything that’s going on too. I’m also a little upset by the revelation that our boss is a psychopathic murderer that probably wants to kill us right now. Difference is, I’ve been dealing with it instead of… whatever the hell you’ve all been doing.”

Tim starts to say something, but Sasha cuts him off. “I know that you’re all trying to do… something. Revenge, doing absolutely dumbass things for research, whatever. But while you’ve all been doing that, I’ve been actually trying to hold the _Times_ together, and I’ve been trying to keep you all from killing yourselves.”

Tim snorts. “No thanks to Jon. He’s the one that got possessed by Shroud.”

“You’re the one who went after the Ringleader,” Jon shoots back.

“And took her down!” Tim says.

Sasha clears her throat. “Are you done?” She doesn’t wait for a response. “You both nearly died on multiple separate occasions.” She looks over to Martin. “Don’t think you’re exempt from this either. You’ve all done some of the stupidest shit I’ve ever heard of a person doing and you’re lucky that you’re all still alive. And none of you ever deigned to tell me about a single bit of it.”

Jon’s not sure what Martin’s been doing, and Tim was _very_ obvious about everything he’s been planning; the only reason Sasha didn’t know was because she happened to be gone. But Jon hasn’t been telling the rest of them. It’s been for a good reason. He can’t tell them. If he does, they’ll try and stop him. He can’t have them try and stop him. He has to see this through. He has to _know_. He can’t let people like them, people who are content to wallow in ignorance, stop him from learning, stop him from understanding. They-

No. That’s not right. _That’s not right_. That isn’t why he doesn’t want them knowing. He wants to keep them safe. That’s what he wants. He knows that. And he does want that, just as much as he needs to know. He wants to keep them safe. That’s why he’s not telling them.

Isn’t it?

Jon’s thoughts are (thankfully) interrupted by Sasha continuing to talk. “I know you’ve been shutting me out. I’m not an idiot. It’s easy to tell that you either think you’re keeping me safe by not telling me-” she eyes Jon “-or you’re too self-absorbed to think of anyone else.” She looks over to Tim. “And that’s fine. You want to be like that, be like that. Am I a little pissed none of you will do your jobs and I’m running this entire damn paper myself? Sure. But what you don’t get to to is shut me out and then go get yourselves killed. I can’t do that. Not again.”

No one speaks for a moment, not until Martin says quietly, “Again?”

Sasha makes a face that’s somewhere between a smile and a grimace. “Yeah. I’ve seen this before. I’ve been working here longer than any of you, remember? Someone had to vacate those positions so you could work here. I’ve watched everyone before you die or… or _change_. I had to write an article about Lucy’s death to the Boneturner the day after it happened. I had to take pictures of what was left of her. I couldn’t do anything but take a fucking _video_ when Robert got killed by Fireball. And I watched Michael turn into that- that thing. I knew all of them. They were my friends, and I couldn’t do anything to help them. And I’ll be damned if I let it happen again. Not to you. Not to any of you.”

“Sasha…” Jon says after a long silence. “I’m- I’m sorry.”

“Then _fix it_.” Sasha’s voice is choked and sounds like she’s nearly crying. “Stop shutting me out. Let me help you. I know you’ve all been through shit. I’ve lost people too. I nearly got torn to pieces by the NotThem.” Her shirt is shifted as she gestures, exposing one of the long, deep scars across her collarbone. “I don’t feel things the same as all of you, I don’t have the exact same experiences, but I know what it’s like to have things- things like that happen to yourself and the people around you. I’m not losing any of you too. So you all need to get your shit together.

“I don’t want to lose anyone else. I _can’t_ lose anyone else. But at the rate you three are going, I might be anyway, and I don’t want to have to go through that again. So either the three of you agree to figure out whatever you need to and work with me, or you let me know now so I can try to stop caring.”

No one says anything for a while. Sasha wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and sits down, breathing heavily. She’s never done anything like this before. Sure, Sasha always speaks her mind, but she’s never been this angry about something before. And, Jon realizes, she has every right to be. They _are_ supposed to be a team. They’re supposed to work together. At the very least, they should be trying to include each other in their crazy suicidal plans. It’s not like they’re much safer without him dragging them into things anyway. Tim nearly got killed by the Ringleader all on his own, and Elias and the other superhumans are still a threat to all of them, regardless of whether they know what Jon is doing or not.

If Jon is willing to trust that the Weaver can keep himself safe, he can trust his other friends. It’s different, of course, but that’s how it’s going to be. He’s going to trust his friends. All of them.

“I’m sorry,” Martin says just before Jon decides to speak. “I- I know we’ve been… a little… yeah, but I want to- I want to get better.”

“I agree,” Jon says. “Whatever you need, Sasha, I- I can help. I’ll try.”

Sasha doesn’t reply immediately. She looks at Tim.

Tim sighs. “Yeah, whatever. Not like I have much else to do anyway.”

Sasha smiles, and the relief behind it is the most Jon has ever seen. “Good. That’s- that’s good.” She laughs quietly, sniffling a couple times before she starts to talk again. “And you know, I trust that you three will follow through, if only because you’re the most stubborn assholes I’ve met in my life.”

Tim smiles back at her, the expression a bit hollow but nearer to the way he used to smile than it has been for weeks. “Yeah, Sash, nothing to worry about on that front.”

“Well, if we’re agreeing to work together…” Sasha stands up. “I would appreciate if all of you would do your actual jobs and maybe help run the paper we all work for.”

“Ah,” Jon says. “That would… probably be a decent place to start.”

Sasha starts heading over for her office. “Alright. I’ve got some stuff to work on from yesterday. Just let me know if you need anything.” She stops before she closes the door behind her and turns back. “Or if you’re going to do anything stupid.”

As soon as the door is closed, Tim lets out a small laugh. “Wow. I’ve never seen her that pissed since… ever, really.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Martin says.

Sasha opens her door and leans back out of her office. “Oh, Martin? I’ve got some stuff to sort through, you mind coming to help?”

“Sure, no- no problem.”

Martin goes to help her. He leaves Jon and Tim alone at the table. It’s… _slightly_ tense.

Tim gets up from his chair, stretching theatrically before beginning to walk to his office. “Well, if we’re done with touching heart-to-heart talks, I have stuff I need to do, so-”

“Tim, I’m sorry,” Jon says before he can stop himself.

Tim stops, standing there a few moments, not turning back to look at Jon. “Good.”

“I… Did it at least help? Going after the Ringleader?”

Tim sighs and walks back over to the table. “Why do you care?”

“Because I-”

Tim cuts Jon off with a shake of his head. “Yeah, I know. It was… kind of a stupid idea-”

“Kind of?”

Tim glares, but doesn’t look truly angry. “Yeah. Kind of. I just… I don’t know. It feels good, but… I don’t know. It helped, but mostly… I’m just tired of it all. Tired of all the secrets and lying and bullshit…” His expression shifts. “Oh, by the way, did you know that the Weaver is apparently not evil? He’s just kind of a dick.”

Tim’s changing the subject. He doesn’t want to talk about what happened with the Ringleader. Jon understands. He won’t force the issue. He has to trust that Tim can work through it on his own.

“Yes, he- he was the one who stopped Shroud-”

“You mentioned that. Thought it was just saving-face bullshit or something on his part.”

“-and I would have told you all that he’s not… not like the rest of them, but I don’t-”

“You don’t understand it?”

“I don’t.”

“Well, that isn’t too far off from anything else about this goddamn city.”

There’s a lull in the conversation. Jon takes the opportunity to say, “Tim, if you ever need anything…”

“I need to burn this entire fucking city to the ground.”

“I… um…”

“Not literally,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. “I’m not going Desolation or anything. But nothing in Scion City is going to be fixed until all of this bullshit is gone.”

“Tim, you… Where would you even start?”

Tim shrugs. “Somewhere. I’ll figure it out. Now, if you’re done talking, I really do have some stuff to get done.” He doesn’t wait for Jon’s response, walking into his office and closing the door behind him.

And Jon feels relief. Tim may still be angry, but it’s not the same anger. If he’s feeling well enough to agree to Sasha’s ultimatum, he’s going to be alright. Tim got his revenge, at least, as much of it as he could without being able to actually kill the Ringleader. It hasn’t satisfied him, but Jon isn’t sure anything ever could. Tim wants to take down the entire system, and he has the conviction to follow through. But it’s not the same blind rage, not the same determination without regard for anything else.

Tim will be alright. He has to be.

They all have to be. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know she was only in like five episodes, but the day I stop loving Sasha is the day I die.


	26. Chapter 26

Martin barely has the energy to walk into Sasha’s office. He hasn’t slept. He hasn’t eaten since… he isn’t actually sure when. Yesterday morning? His injuries hurt. The slash across his chest wasn’t as deep as it could have been, but it had been difficult to stitch up himself and it still hurts like hell. His old stab wound, torn open again, hurts barely less than it did the first time. Then there’s the circle around his leg where the Ringleader’s whip cut into him, and the cut on his face that’s been bleeding more than it should and has been incredibly difficult to try and hide. Sleeping would probably help, but he can’t. He can’t even close his eyes.

If he closes his eyes, he sees the bodies.

So he hasn’t slept. It’s left him tired. He doesn’t exactly feel much like helping Sasha do _Times_ work right now, but it’s not like he can say no. Besides, maybe it will help him take his mind off things.

It doesn’t. Of course, maybe it would if Sasha would just give him some work to do, but that isn’t what happens.

As soon as the door is closed, Sasha starts the conversation by saying “Martin, are you okay?”

“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, I’m- I’m fine, I’m doing great.”

Sasha just crosses her arms and gives him a look.

“No, really, I’m fine,” Martin says, speaking faster and more unconvincingly but unable to stop himself from doing it. “I’m- there’s nothing- I’m doing fine, how- how are you?”

“Martin…”

“I’m just- I’m just tired, and the whole thing with Tim yesterday — I was worried, and you know- you know how I get when I’m worried, and I didn’t really sleep and I also got trampled by the crowd and-”

“Martin.” Sasha doesn’t really snap it, but her tone is sharp enough to make Martin stop talking.

Martin shuts up. Sasha doesn’t say anything for a moment. She looks down at the floor, an expression of hesitation crossing her face. Martin feels himself fill with dread. This isn’t good. Whatever she has to say, it’s-

“I know you’re the Weaver.”

Martin’s heart stops.

No. That’s not right. That can’t be right. She can’t know. She’s not supposed to know.

“I- I- I-” Martin says, trying to form words, trying to even think words. “I don’t- I don’t know what you’re- I- I don’t…” She knows. _She knows_. “I don’t- I’m sorry, Sasha, I’m- I’m so sorry, I can’t- I didn’t-”

“Martin.” Sasha reaches out and grabs him by the shoulders. “It’s okay.”

He blinks at her, confused. It’s not okay. It can’t be okay. How can it be okay?

“How-” he tries to say. “How-”

“Because I’m not completely oblivious.” She drops her hands back to her sides. “You’ve been… weird, even before we found Gertrude’s notes. Then you missed work right after the Puppeteer and Fireball fight and came back acting even weirder. And all those random injuries you kept getting, especially when half the excuses you gave barely made sense. And then the Weaver went to go fight Shroud to save Jon’s ass, even though they’re supposed to be on the same side. He didn’t actually mention that the Weaver rescuing him was odd, or much about the Weaver at all, really, when he talked about it, so I figured that something was probably different about the whole thing. And then you ran off during the whole Ringleader business, even though you’re the only one with enough sense to not do that.”

Martin laughs nervously, then clamps it down when it carries on for too long and turns too hysterical. “Well, apparently- apparently not.” He shakes his head, willing himself to not break down entirely, not now. “I’m sorry, Sasha, I should have- I should have…”

“Told me?” She shrugs. “Yeah, probably.”

Martin’s brain is simultaneously going too fast and too slow to understand what’s happening. His anxious thoughts are spinning through his mind so quickly they’re barely coherent and he’s so tired it’s hard to think much at all. All he knows is that this is wrong and that it can’t be happening.

“Sasha, I… Sasha…” Martin can’t talk. He can’t think of anything to say. “I don’t… I don’t…”

He doesn’t realize he’s started crying for a couple seconds, but once he does, it’s impossible to stop. There’s so much. It’s all too much. Tim, the Ringleader, all those people dead, all the things Martin saw, and now Sasha… He can’t do this. He can’t handle any of this. He can’t he can’t he can’t he can’t-

Martin is broken out of his thoughts by Sasha wrapping her arms around him. He leans into her shoulder and cries. He can’t help it. Doesn’t feel like bothering. He’s been through hell the last… who knows how long. Forever, it feels like. The past day has been bad, but there’s also… everything. Everything that’s happened, everything since he first got his powers. He’s been strangled, stabbed, burned, thrown into walls and through windows, mind controlled, and nearly killed more times than he cared to think about. He’s been forced to reveal his identity to one of his friends to keep himself from being shot, he’s just learned that another friend figured it out on her own and probably hates him for it, and he can’t stomach the thought of the other one finding out because he would feel the most betrayed and he’s the one that Martin has had a crush on for years. Martin is tired. He’s so, so tired.

So he leans into Sasha as she hugs him and cries until he doesn’t have to anymore.

“You’re okay,” she says quietly, even though nothing could be further from the truth. “You’re okay.”

Eventually, Martin pulls back, wiping his eyes with one hand. “You’re not… Are you angry?”

“I don’t know, are you actually evil like everyone else?”

“No! No, no, I’m not- that’s not-”

“Relax, Martin. With how bad you’ve been about hiding this, I think you’d have an even harder time hiding anything else on top of it.”

“Was it- was it really that obvious?”

“Normal people don’t fall down the stairs at least once a week.” She sighs. “I’m really not that angry. I don’t… I don’t like any of you doing stupid shit without telling me, but I get it. I just wish you’d trusted us enough to tell us.”

“It’s not… it’s not that I don’t trust you. I just… I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “I wanted to be someone else before, to be someone that wasn’t me, that was better than me. Still do, I guess, but… I never wanted to tell any of you because I thought- I thought you would hate me for it. And then when we found Gertrude’s notes and then when I murdered Puppeteer and then with Tim… I couldn’t. I couldn’t tell any of you.”

“I understand.” Her tone is heavier than normal, but she doesn’t have that same anger she had when she was talking to the three of them earlier. She isn’t that angry. She doesn’t hate him. “I don’t think you’re a bad person, Martin, I just… I worry. I’m worried about you.”

“Me too. I’m tired. I’m… I’m scared.” Martin feels so small admitting to it all, especially when Sasha knows he’s supposed to be a superhero, someone above all this, but he can’t help it. He _is_ tired. He _is_ scared.

“I know. If you need anything, we can-”

“Don’t tell Jon,” Martin says. “Tim already knows, but I have to- I have to tell Jon on my own. Please- please don’t tell him.”

“Tim already-” Sasha pauses a moment, considering. “Yeah, that makes sense. I won’t tell Jon. I would have waited until you were ready to tell me, but…” She trails off, gesturing at Martin.

He picks up what she means. “I look like shit?”

“A little, yeah.” She smiles a bit, but then her expression melts back into seriousness. “Are you doing okay? With all of that stuff yesterday, I mean.”

Martin scoffs. “How could I be?”

Sasha walks around him and pushes some of her papers to the side so she can sit on her desk. “Talk to me.”

Martin hesitates. He shouldn’t be telling her all of this, not so soon after she’s had to deal with the revelation about his identity. He shouldn’t be bothering her with his problems. But she wants to help. She said as much when she was talking to all of them, and he can see in her face that she means it. She wants to help them just the same as Martin wants to protect her and Tim and Jon. She wants to help the same as Tim wants to get justice for his brother, the same as Jon wants to uncover every secret and answer every question. And the constant, incessant thoughts (Sticky blood under his feet, under his hands, splashed across his body. His own, someone else’s, what does it matter at this point?) are roiling through his head, and he can barely think, barely do anything but try desperately to get away from them.

So, he figures, fuck it. Might as well talk about it.

“Well, I mean… You… you saw what happened. The news. The… the bodies.”

“Kind of hard not to.”

Martin has to take a moment to force the memories away before he can continue. What he says is “This is the first time- the first time there’s _been_ bodies. I’ve always been able to save everyone before, but this time… I didn’t get there soon enough.”

What he doesn’t say is _I wasn’t good enough_.

“That wasn’t your fault,” Sasha says. “You couldn’t have done anything.”

“Yeah, I know, I just… It was bad. I don’t- I can’t- I can’t get it out of my head. All of those bodies… You saw all that, right? On the news? How am I supposed to move on from seeing that?”

She sighs heavily. “Yeah, I’m still trying to figure that one out.” She runs her fingers along one arm, over the scars that are under her sleeve. “Breathing helps sometimes. Tea is good for the nightmares. Right now, I think the best thing for you would be to get some rest. You need to sleep.”

“Yeah, that might be- might be a good idea.” There’s a pause and Martin looks down at the floor before looking up to make eye contact with Sasha. “Thank you, Sasha.”

She smiles gently. “I’m here for you, Martin. All of you. No matter what.”

“I know.” And he does. He does know.

There’s a lull in the conversation, a silence that is more peaceful than uncomfortable. And for the first time since before the Ringleader’s broadcast, Martin doesn’t have the image of the corpses and the sticky smell of blood in the back of his mind. He feels… calm, almost. Relieved. Things aren’t okay, and they aren’t going to be okay for a long, long time. But it isn’t as bad as it could be. Martin is alive. Tired and scared and hurting, yes, but alive. And his friends are alright too. They’re all tired, all harrowed, but they’re going to be okay. They’re going to work together and make things okay.

But to do that, he needs to make things okay with Tim.

“Hey, Sasha? I need to- need to go talk to Tim, so could you… I don’t know, make sure he doesn’t kill me?” Martin is joking, but he’s not sure it isn’t outside the realm of possibility.

“I don’t think he’d kill you,” Sasha says, though even she doesn’t sound entirely convinced.

Martin shrugs, giving her a weak smile. “Maybe just wait outside? Just- just in case.”

“Whatever you need, Martin.”

It does take a few minutes for Martin to work up the nerve to go into Tim’s office. He can afford the hesitation, since Jon has disappeared to his own office and Sasha is waiting patiently for him. He needs to take a moment to get himself ready. He needs to figure out what to say.

When he opens the door and enters the office, all of his plans for what to say immediately evaporate.

Tim looks up from his computer. “What do you want?” he says, his voice icy.

Martin closes the door, shuffling awkwardly. “I… want to talk to you.”

Tim looks back down at his computer. “Good for you.”

“Tim, I’m sorry. I really did want to tell all of you, but- but after all everything that happened I just… I couldn’t.”

“You should have.” Tim’s tone is clipped and short, but he doesn’t sound quite as angry as he did yesterday.

“I know. I…” Martin trails off, not sure what to say. What is he supposed to say? What does he want out of this conversation? Forgiveness? Understanding? Something else?

Tim is the one to break the pause. “Why?” he asks.

“Why… what?”

Tim sighs and slams his laptop closed. “Oh, I don’t know, a lot of things. Why didn’t you tell us? Why are you different than every other superhuman? Why did one of the people I thought was my friend have to lie to me for months on end? Why is this entire goddamn city so fucked up?”

“I don’t- I don’t know. I’m sorry, Tim, I-”

“Stop apologizing,” Tim snaps.

Martin has to fight off the urge to say “sorry” again, so he stays quiet.

“I’m tired of all of this bullshit. I’m tired of the Entities, I’m tired of Elias, I’m tired of all of these secrets and lies and revelations and _whatever_. It’s hard to even celebrate shooting that plastic bitch in the head because of-” he waves his hand at Martin “-all of that shit.”

“If I hadn’t been there, she would have killed you.” Martin doesn’t mean to be defensive at Tim’s comments — he _knows_ why Tim is acting like this — but he’s too tired to stop himself.

“You think I don’t know that?” Tim pauses, frown deepening before he sighs heavily and shakes his head. “I’m not- I can’t just pretend everything’s okay between us now, but you gave me the chance to stop her. So…” He gestures vaguely, but Martin knows what he means.

Tim has wanted to take down the Ringleader for years and he was finally able to because Martin had been there. Tim is far too stubborn and can hold grudges for far too long for everything to be fine between him and Martin, but it’s not going to be irreparable. At least, Martin hopes so. It’s hard to tell exactly what will happen with Tim, but Martin’s going to believe that, eventually, things will be okay. If he doesn’t… He can’t afford to think like that.

“Thank you,” Martin says. “I- I know that I-”

Tim cuts him off with a sharp wave of his hand. “Don’t test your luck,” he says, though his tone is nowhere near as aggressive as his words.

Martin hesitates, then nods. He’ll give Tim his space. He needs it.

When Martin goes back in the lobby, Sasha is still there, waiting just outside Tim’s door. “He’ll come around,” she says, apparently reading the slightly disappointed expression on his face.

Martin can’t think of anything to say, so he just gives her a smile in response.

Things are going to be okay. They have to be. But for that to happen, Martin’s going to have some work to do. He’s going to have to go home and go to sleep. He’s going to have to tell Jon. He’s going to have to redouble his efforts to make sure no one gets hurt. He’s going to have to find some way to keep Elias from coming after him or his friends. He’s going to have to find the answers for all of Scion City’s questions.

But for now, he’s just going to make himself some tea. 


	27. Chapter 27

Returning to normal work for the _Times_ after the events of the past few weeks is strange, but Jon manages it easier than he thought he would. He had promised Sasha to help her with their actual job, and he and the others have met it with some success. Martin is finding pieces about more minor events, skirmishes between superhumans on the outskirts of Scion City that Jon didn’t even know about. Tim isn’t working directly on anything with the Ringleader attack, but he is working on a comprehensive exposé about the police response to Stranger activities since superhumans first started appearing, which is very impressive if so disparaging as to be borderline unpublishable. Sasha and Jon are working together to get all of the information they can about the attack on SCTV, though after five days, there isn’t much new to cover.

It’s normal. It’s easy. It’s nearly like what things were before Jon had started hunting for what Gertrude knew.

It’s almost relaxing to write and research for normal articles. Almost. The gnawing need to find out about what’s really going on still pulls at him constantly. He’s coping with it, but it’s giving him an awful headache, both figuratively and, unfortunately, literally.

Still, he’s settled back into routine enough that he almost doesn’t notice. He also doesn’t notice when he’s at the _Times_ office nearly two hours past the end of the workday.

Now that he thinks about it, both Tim and Sasha had announced that they were leaving earlier. Jon hadn’t really noticed. He certainly does now. Martin is sequestered in his office and Tim and Sasha are gone. But that isn’t really what he’s worried about. No, that’s more the pressing darkness outside the windows, all but the lights of the nearest buildings obscured completely. He’s managed to sleep (well, sleep may be a strong word) with the lights off for a couple days, but this… He takes out the lighter he’s been keeping in his pocket since his encounter with Shroud and holds it tightly in his hand as he tries to ignore the dark.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there, clutching the lighter, looking down at his papers, not reading them so much as staring blankly at them.

He’s finally broken out of his daze by the sound of Martin’s door opening. “Hey, Jon, I’m going… Are you- are you alright?”

“Fine,” Jon says, though it’s so clipped that it’s nowhere near convincing. “I’m fine. Just… just tired.”

“What’s that for?” Martin gestures at Jon’s lighter, walking up to the table and setting his bag down on top of it.

“I, um…” Jon can’t lie and say he’s smoking again; that will just make Martin worried. He might as well be honest. “It’s for the Dark. The Dark can extinguish other light sources, but they can’t touch fire.”

Martin’s brow furrows. “I’ve never heard that.”

“What?” Jon says. “You must have, there was the…”

He stops. There must be an example of fire being used against the Dark. All of the Entities have had some superhumans fight each other. Blaze had gotten into a confrontation with a Bat several years ago, which ended in maybe twenty seconds when the Bat was boiled in its own skin. But that was heat, not light. There must have been more fights between the Desolation and the Dark at some point, some instance that could prove what Jon is saying.

Because he _knows_ that the Dark can’t put out fire. There’s no way that isn’t true. There must be an example, something he’s basing the assumption off of. He can’t think of it. He can’t think of anything. But he _knows_ he’s right, even if he has no idea how he knows.

He’s probably just forgetting something. Yes, that’s it. He’s tired and something is slipping his mind and he hasn’t had reason to think of it before now.

“Never mind,” he finally says when he realizes he never actually finished his answer.

Martin doesn’t look any less concerned. “Are you sure you’re alright, Jon?”

“Of course. What’s one more mundane thing to be afraid of?”

Martin doesn’t seem particularly amused.

Jon tries to recover the situation. “I’m alright. I- I just need… something to protect myself. Being possessed isn’t exactly an experience I want to repeat, and- and I just want a contingency plan in case- in case somehow I come across Shroud again. It’s no different than after the Flesh Hive attacked, though a fear of the dark is a bit more inconvenient than a fear of gardening.”

“Garden- Ah. The worms.” Martin smiles slightly before his face melts back into gentle concern. “Is there- is there anything I can do to help? Do you want me to walk you home?”

Jon’s gut reaction is to say no. He doesn’t need help. But he does. He does need help. And he promised Sasha that he would stop shutting the others out. She was probably referring more to his reckless plans that have almost gotten him killed numerous times, but it likely applies in this situation too.

“I… uh, yes, that would- that would be… nice. I’ll just go get my things.”

The nights are cold now that it’s past mid-November. There hasn’t been any snow yet, but that’s not much comfort against the chill and the biting wind and the night falling earlier and earlier with each passing day. Jon’s apartment isn’t too far a walk from the _Times_ office, but the weather doesn’t make it very pleasant.

He and Martin walk in slightly awkward silence for about a minute. Jon is too focused on keeping a wary eye out toward the darkened alleys they pass to worry about making conversation. And Martin seems… nervous. Not that that’s too far out of the ordinary, but it’s difficult not to notice at the moment. He’s fidgeting, shifting his small duffle bag from shoulder to shoulder. He’s never carried around a bag before; he normally just leaves all his things at the _Times_ office.

Jon suddenly very much wants to know what Martin is carrying around. He has no reason to want to know. He has no reason to _need_ to know. But that familiar need is there, clawing at him. He hasn’t learned anything for _so_ _long_. If Martin is hiding something from him, he _needs_ to know. He _deserves_ to know. He can’t trust them, he can’t trust any of them. They’re all hiding things, trying to stop him, forcing him to stop _learning_. Jon needs to-

No. No he doesn’t. He doesn’t need to do anything. He doesn’t need to stop trusting the others. He doesn’t need to be paranoid. He doesn’t need to learn, not in the capacity whatever is inside him is trying to make him.

Jon lets out a long breath, watching it turn to mist in the cold air. “Why were you staying late?” he asks, needing something to distract himself.

“I fell asleep at my desk,” Martin says, awkwardly scratching the neat line of the scar on his face he’d been covering with a plaster the last few days. “I guess it’s probably a good thing, since I haven’t- haven’t been sleeping much lately, but I don’t think Elias is going to pay me overtime for it.” He laughs, a sound that’s nice it a bit awkward.

“He hasn’t… Has he threatened you again?”

“No. I haven’t- haven’t actually seen him much for a while now. Maybe he’s decided we aren’t a threat anymore?” Even as he says it, Martin sounds entirely unconvinced.

“I… I hope that’s the case.” It isn’t likely, of course, but Jon doesn’t need to mention that. They both know.

They lapse into silence for a moment. The shadows seem… wrong. They’re too dark. It’s probably just a trick of the light, or Jon being paranoid, but now that he sees it… He puts his hand into his pocket and holds the lighter like a lifeline.

Martin seems to notice Jon’s elevated tension. “Hey, Jon,” he says, voice gentle.

“Hm,” Jon replies, focusing more on keeping himself walking and watching the shadows.

Jon snaps out of the daze when he feels Martin’s touch. Martin lightly brushes the back of Jon’s hand with his, then slowly, hesitantly, reaches to wrap their hands together. Jon stiffens instinctively, both from being distracted from his thoughts and because of the physical contact, and Martin flinches and almost pulls his hand away.

“No, no, it’s alright,” Jon says, squeezing Martin’s hand for his own reassurance as much as Martin’s. “I… um… thank you.” He sighs. “I thought I would be better by now, but…”

“It’s difficult to recover from being possessed and nearly dying?” Martin says with equal amounts of dry humor and worry before shifting fully into concern. “I- we can help you, Jon. You don’t have to do this alone.”

“I know, I… I’m going to try.” Jon lets go of the lighter and adjusts his glasses with his free hand. “I… What about you, Martin? Have you been… doing alright?”

Martin shrugs. “Mostly. My injuries are healing up and I… I wasn’t close enough to… to see anything the Ringleader did. I’m still worried about Tim, but I think- I think he might be doing better.”

“Well, he ranted to me yesterday about his work for twenty minutes without glaring at me once, so I’d say he’s probably a bit less angry.”

“Yeah, and he’s started taking his lunch breaks with Sasha again instead of sitting in his office all day.” Martin pauses for a moment. “I think… I think it’s going to be okay.”

And right then, Jon wants to believe that too. Wants to believe that he can let everything go, allow things to go back to normal. He wants to do that. But he can’t. He can’t just stop trying to uncover everything, to learn what’s really happening, to try and expose the truth. But maybe he get answers and get through this. Martin certainly believes they can, that they’re all going to be okay in the end. Jon doesn’t have that optimism, but maybe…

Maybe he can afford to think that things will be alright, just for a little while.

Jon and Martin don’t talk for the remaining few minutes it takes to get to Jon’s apartment. They don’t need to. Martin’s hand held in his provides Jon enough of an anchor to keep most of the fear from creeping in. Martin seems content enough just to be walking together in the relative quiet. Jon is glad he’s here. He’s glad to have another person to rely on, a friend that cares about him. Martin has always been there, of course, along with Sasha and the Weaver and… well, Tim hasn’t been in much of a state to help anyone else, but he’s still Jon’s friend. It’s just that it’s only now that Jon really wants to allow himself to be helped, to trust that his friends will follow him into danger and come out alive at the end of it all. He made a promise to Sasha, and he is going to keep it. He’s not going to shut the others out, not again.

“This one’s yours, right?” Martin asks as they approach Jon’s apartment building.

Jon nods. “Yes. I… Thank you, Martin. Are you- Are you alright walking on your own?”

“Oh, yeah. I’ll be fine. I don’t live too far away.” Martin holds onto Jon’s hand a moment longer before letting go. “I’ll… see you tomorrow, then.”

Jon smiles. “Yes, um, tomorrow.”

They both stand there awkwardly for a moment until Jon pulls his key out of his pocket and unlocks the front door. Martin waits until Jon has fully entered the building before he starts heading down the street toward his own flat. Jon makes his way up to his apartment, ignoring the darkness pressing at the hallway window as he opens his door.

Jon spends the next several hours finding various ways to distract himself. He eats a meal, takes a shower, organizes his bookshelves, sorts through some of his files. He spends a few of those hours trying to sleep, managing to doze off for about thirty minutes at a time before he’s woken up again. All the while, he feels the continuous clawing hunger at the edges of his mind, the desperate need of knowledge and learning. It’s been growing over the past week and a half, ever since he visited Shroud. It’s not unbearable, not quite, but it’s certainly a nuisance.

A terrifying nuisance.

Jon doesn’t know what’s going on. He doesn’t know what’s creating that need inside him. It’s always been there, at least in some degree, but he’s been able to write it off as something else before. Natural childhood curiosity, academic integrity, fear about what happened to Gertrude, searching for answers. It’s always been too much to be natural, but now… It’s something else entirely. It’s not only a driving force that’s going to make Jon do something stupid and get himself killed, but a terrible desire that’s going to pull him apart from the inside.

He’s scared.

So he does his best to ignore that fear. He continues finding things to do. Moving furniture around, reorganizing his files again, reading an old book that he may as well have memorized. Time passes slowly and it seems to take an eternity to calm himself down, to rid himself of the dread and panic. It’s still there, creeping around the edges of his mind, but it’s dull. He manages to pass the time until sometime around seven in the morning, when the sky has just begun to brighten.

Still, even with the feeling of calm, Jon nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears a knock on the window.

It only takes Jon a moment to know who it is. It takes a moment longer to get over to the window and open it. The Weaver climbs rather ungracefully through the window and tumbles to the floor.

Jon smiles as he extends a hand to help the Weaver up. “Well, at least you didn’t break the window this time.”

“You try climbing through a fourth floor window sometime,” the Weaver says, smile in his voice as Jon pulls him to his feet. “Thanks.”

“Of course. I…”

In that moment, Jon realizes that the last time he saw the Weaver was in the SCTV headquarters. When the Weaver saved Tim’s life. When the Weaver saved Jon’s life. When the Weaver stopped the Ringleader. When the Weaver almost died again. It feels like they’ve talked since then, but they haven’t. Jon needs to say something. He doesn’t know what to say.

“I, um…” he says, trying to collect his thoughts. Before he has time to think about it, he reaches out to hold the Weaver’s hand. “I don’t think I ever- ever properly thanked you for saving Tim.”

“The Ringleader would have… She would have killed me if he hadn’t shot her.” The Weaver’s voice sounds a bit distant, slightly hollow. “He saved me as much as I saved him.”

“Still, I… Thank you.”

The Weaver doesn’t respond directly, just runs his thumb along the back of Jon’s hand. Jon knows what he means. They stand there for a moment before the Weaver pulls his hand away, looking out the window at the first suggestions of light beginning to filter through it.

“Do you want to go watch the sunrise?” the Weaver asks, sounding tentative, unsure.

Jon smiles. “I’ll go get my coat.”

When Jon returns, the Weaver already has the window open and is halfway outside it. Jon supposes that the Weaver isn’t much one for walking or using stairs — or doors, for that matter — but this isn’t exactly something Jon would have expected. Still, the Weaver would never willingly put someone else in danger, especially Jon, so he most likely knows what he’s doing.

The Weaver asks “Do you trust me?”

And Jon’s answer as he takes the Weaver’s hand is an unhesitant, unfaltering “Yes.” 


	28. Chapter 28

Jon should be more nervous walking on what is essentially a tightrope nearly fifty feet off the ground. He’s nervous, of course, as anyone would be, but all it takes is a tight grip on the Weaver’s hand and doing his best to ignore the ground below them to stop feeling too afraid. The webs are surprisingly easy to balance on, and he’s not worried about falling with the Weaver beside him. The Weaver walks on a line of web far enough that Jon can spread his arms for balance but close enough so their hands can stay together.

It takes them a while to cross to the next building on the opposite side of the street from Jon’s apartment, but the Weaver doesn’t seem to mind. Jon doesn’t mind either. It is a bit cold, but the air is clear. And, for the first time in the past… who knows how long, Jon’s mind is clear too. The constant and racing thdoughts, the incessant desire for knowledge and learning and information, the churning fear that’s been curled inside him for so long… Those aren’t there right now.

There’s only Jon and the Weaver and a walk through the air on parallel tightropes made of web.

As they’ve been walking, the Weaver has been using his free hand to materialize a makeshift ladder on the building across the street, which is an office for an accounting firm and one of the taller buildings in the area. This ladder looks slightly more sturdy than the Weaver’s first attempt at a one, and Jon only has to take a moment of hesitation after reaching it before he decides to climb. The Weaver waits below him, balancing on his line for a while until he begins to follow Jon up. The building is many stories higher than the level they’ve been walking at, so the climb takes a few minutes. But when Jon and the Weaver reach the top, the view is more than worth it.

Jon can see the whole of the city from here. The entire skyline of Scion City, outlined by the deep orange of the sunrise, metal and glass reflecting golden light. The clouds are stained pink and yellow and violet, silhouettes against the orange at the horizon and the brightening blue of the rest of the sky.

Neither Jon nor the Weaver talk for a while. They don’t need to. Jon sits down at the edge of the building, dangling his feet over the side. The Weaver sits down next to him and they both look out at the city and the sunrise. Jon wants to lean onto the Weaver’s shoulder, close the gap between them, but that feels… a bit too forward. Instead, he puts his hand on top the Weaver’s in between the two of them.

Jon’s never been good with his own feelings. He can interpret them when he bothers to, but he usually has so much on his mind that he doesn’t bother to. And sometimes those feelings are… complicated. But now…

Jon has never been one to fall for people quickly. Or at all, for the most part. When he has, it’s been a slow process, one he doesn’t even realize has happened until he’s already in far too deep. And it always has been too deep. Jon has never been one for simple attraction (or attraction at all, really) or short-time crushes, it’s always the feeling of trust and friendship and then it isn’t, it’s something else, something the same yet entirely different. Something so similar he can barely notice the change but something so profound that there’s no way to mistake it for something else.

And that seems to be what’s happened with the Weaver.

It’s ridiculous. Jon’s known him for, what, two months now? It feels like it’s been longer (more than feels, Jon almost _knows_ it’s been longer), but it really hasn’t been. Jon doesn’t know what the Weaver looks like. Doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know who the Weaver is besides the superhero who’s saved his life countless times and the man he trusts unconditionally.

Three months ago, Jon never would have considered that he’d be here, sitting on top of a building and watching the sunrise with a superhero he’s just now realized that he may have fallen in love with.

And he knows that. He knows as surely as he knows anything else that he has somehow fallen in love with the Weaver. No, not just that: he’s _been_ in love with the Weaver for… a while now, he thinks.

It’s a bit of a jarring realization.

Jon’s thoughts are interrupted when the Weaver breaks the silence. “I, um, I brought you up here because- because I wanted one last nice thing in case…” He exhales heavily. “I need to talk to you about something.”

Normally Jon would have some sort of clever reply, or at the very least something cohesive, but what comes out of his mouth is neither of those things. “Oh, I- I- um, I…” He clears his throat and takes a moment to collect himself. “Yes?”

The Weaver stands, walking a few paces back toward the middle of the roof. Jon follows him. The Weaver doesn’t say anything for a while, turning back to Jon and looking down, tapping his fingers against his thigh.

“I, um…” the Weaver says, then sighs. “I’m- I’m sorry.”

“For what?” Jon can’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

The Weaver makes a few noises that don’t quite form themselves into words, shaking his head and looking down again.

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Jon says. “Whatever you need to say, you- you can say it. I trust you.”

The Weaver puts a hand to his head, spinning on his heel to walk a few paces away. “That’s… I… You don’t even know who I am.”

Jon puts his hand on the Weaver’s shoulder to turn him back to face him. “I do.”

The Weaver shrugs off Jon’s hand but doesn’t turn away. “I’ve never showed you my face. I’ve never told you my name. All you know is- is this.” He gestures sharply at his mask.

“You’re the Weaver,” Jon says, which earns him a scoff before he continues. “You’re the person who has saved the lives of countless people in this city. You’re the one who’s saved _my_ life more times than I care to think of. You’re the person who’s been through hell and still managed to keep your bravery and your compassion and your kindness. You’re one of the people I trust most. You’re my friend.”

“I know, that’s what makes it so- so…” The Weaver cuts himself off with a groan of frustration, taking a moment to calm himself before continuing. “You want to know who I am, so-”

Jon stops him midsentence. “Yes, but- but you don’t have to tell me. I don’t- I don’t understand what’s making me need to know things like I do, but _I_ don’t have to know.”

“No, you deserve- you deserve to know. You deserve to know who I am. All this time I’ve just been- I’ve just been leading you on with this-” he jabs at his mask again “-and you should know who I am.”

“I _do_ know who you are.” Jon reaches out to take the Weaver’s hand. “It doesn’t matter what name you’re using; it doesn’t matter if you’re wearing a mask or not.”

“It _does_ ,” the Weaver says, and starts to pull off his mask.

Jon catches the Weaver’s hand before the mask is even halfway up. The Weaver stops. He’s stronger than Jon, easily, and could shake him off if he wanted to, but he stops. Mostly he just seems surprised.

“Don’t do this for me,” Jon says. “I don’t have to know.”

Jon could know now, if he wanted to. And so much of him wants to. Needs to. But he’s going to ignore that. He’s going to ignore that because that part of him has only hurt people, and he’s not letting that happen anymore. He doesn’t need to know. He could, of course. The lower half of the Weaver’s face is visible now, uncovered by the mask, and it seems so familiar. Jon could know who he is just as easily as he could know so many things that are just outside the reach of what he _should_ know. But he doesn’t need to know that. He’s _not_ going to know that, not unless the Weaver wants to tell him for his own sake, not for Jon’s.

“Are you- are you really okay with not knowing who I am?” the Weaver says, his mouth now visible to form the words.

Jon lets go of the Weaver’s hand. “Yes.”

The Weaver takes a moment, considering. He moves his hand down, then back up to the edge of his mask. “I… I think you…” He stops, shakes his head, continues with more conviction. “ _I_ want to. _I_ want to show you. I’m tired of hiding. I want to do this for myself.”

And the Weaver takes off his mask.

He takes off his mask, and for the first time, Jon sees the Weaver’s face. It’s a face that Jon knows. A face that Jon can’t process for a few seconds, but when he does…

“ _Martin_?”

The Weaver — no, not the Weaver, _Martin_ — gives him a weary, nervous smile. “Y- yeah.”

Jon tries to come up with something to say. He can’t. He can’t even come up with much to think except confusion. But it’s not confusing. It makes so much sense. It makes sense that the Weaver is different than the other superhumans. It makes sense that the Weaver has always been there to save Jon. It makes sense that the Weaver has always been so kind, so hopeful, so determined to help, so… wonderful.

It makes sense that the friend who has been Jon’s anchor through all of this is the same as the one who’s always been there to save him.

It makes sense that the Weaver is Martin. It makes sense that Martin is the Weaver.

Because some part of Jon has always known, hasn’t it? The part that trusted the Weaver so easily, the part that still wanted to care for the Weaver even after finding Gertrude’s notes, the part that fell for the Weaver after so short a time. Jon has never realized, not truly, but he’s always _known_. That connection, those feelings, those emotions… Jon’s heart has always known, even if his mind hasn’t.

“I, uh…” Jon says, apparently still not ready to form words.

“I, um… I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to-” Martin cuts himself off, inhales, and restarts. “I shouldn’t have lied to you for so long, and I didn’t mean to- to manipulate any of your feelings or anything. If you don’t want to be friends anymore, I… I get it. I just… I need to know if you- if you hate me now so I can deal with it.”

Jon doesn’t hate Martin now. He couldn’t. Jon has kept secrets too, secrets that have almost gotten him killed. It’s only fair that Martin can do the same. Martin hasn’t been manipulating Jon. Martin has _always_ been the Weaver; it isn’t some sudden change. Jon developed his feelings for the Weaver, and the Weaver was always Martin. Jon trusts them both. To find out they’re one and the same… It doesn’t change anything.  
  
The Weaver is Martin. Martin is the Weaver. If Jon is in love with the Weaver, he’s in love with Martin. The Weaver has always been Martin. All this time, Jon _has_ been in love with Martin. It just took the mask for him to realize it.

Jon tries to say so out loud, but he can’t make his mouth form the words.

So Jon, as always, does something rash. He doesn’t take time to think, doesn’t take time to consider, doesn’t take time to think of an alternative option. He just does it so quickly after the thought forms that he’s surprised by it.

Martin, though, seems much more surprised when Jon kisses him.

But Martin doesn’t pull away. Instead, he wraps his arms around Jon’s waist to pull him closer. Jon moves his hands up to put them on the sides of Martin’s face, the face that Jon knows but has never explored like this. He runs his fingers along Martin’s jawline, moves his thumbs over Martin’s cheekbones and the scar on the left side of his face. Martin’s skin is soft. His lips are softer.

Jon doesn’t really have much experience with kissing, and he’s not even sure if he’s doing it right. His glasses are being pushed uncomfortably into his face. He’s not sure what to do with his hands. He’s not even really sure what he’s supposed to be doing with his mouth.

But that doesn’t matter. All that matters is the feel of Martin’s lips on his, Martin’s skin under his fingers, Martin, closer than he’s ever been. Martin’s hands traveling up Jon’s back to bury themselves in his hair. Martin’s breath on his face when they have to break apart to breathe.

It ends too soon. Far too soon. Jon wants to drag Martin back into it, but he has just enough restraint to stop himself from doing that. Jon takes his hands off Martin’s face. Martin disentangles his hands from Jon’s hair. They stay close, breathing heavily, and Jon sees Martin smile. It’s a familiar smile, but somehow so new, so different, so beautiful.

Jon does feel the same way for Martin as he did for the Weaver. Nothing has changed now. As surely as Jon knows anything else, he knows that. The only thing that’s different is that Jon has had the benefit of befriending the same person twice over, of gaining that level of intimacy, to have a relationship where Jon would let himself fall in love. If it were a different world, one where the Weaver didn’t exist, maybe Jon would never have fallen for Martin. But that isn’t the world they’re in. They’re in this one, and in this one, Jon _has_ fallen for Martin. There’s no doubt about that.

Jon has fallen in love with Martin.

They linger there for a moment until Martin takes a small step back. “I, um, I take it you don’t hate me now?” he says, mouth still curved in a smile, and Jon very much wants to kiss him again.

“Of course not, Martin. You’re still- you’re still the same person. It doesn’t make a difference if you’re wearing the mask or if you’re not.”

Martin stands there for a moment, looking unsure. Then he steps forward and throws his arms around Jon, pulling him into a tight hug. Maybe a bit too tight, but Jon doesn’t really mind.

“Thank you,” Martin mumbles into Jon’s shoulder.

Jon doesn’t say anything in reply. He doesn’t need to. He just holds Martin until Martin is ready to pull away. Even when he does, he stays close, keeping a hand on Jon’s arm.

“You’re really- you’re really alright with- with this?” Martin asks.

Jon smiles. “Yes, Martin. I am.”

“That’s- that’s good. I, um…” Martin trails off for a moment, thinking of what to say. “Where do we- where do we go from here?”

Jon casts a glance toward the sun, fully visible now over the horizon. “Well, I think we might be late to work.”

“Oh! Shit, right, I forgot- I forgot that was-” Martin looks around. “I, uh, well, we could probably get there in- in not too long if we hurried.” He puts his mask back on, turning back toward Jon and offering a hand. “Trust me?”

Jon grasps Martin’s hand, flashing him a grin. “Always.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Told y'all it would be a slow burn.


	29. Chapter 29

Martin never realized how much weight would be taken off his shoulders with all of his friends knowing that he’s the Weaver. It’s been so much of a relief. To know that they don’t hate him (or mostly don’t hate him, in Tim’s case) has made things stop seeming like to much. To have people to talk to, to have people to help him when he needs it… It’s a relief. It’s so much of a relief.

To be able to sit at the table with his friends, Jon sitting just a bit closer than before, Sasha looking the least tired she’s been in weeks, Tim seeming more like his old self with each passing day… It’s a good feeling. It’s almost enough to scrape away the horror and the guilt and the fear that Martin’s had for a while now.

Not quite, but almost. Things are getting better.

It also doesn’t hurt to know that Jon returns Martin’s feelings. But that still seems unreal, like a distant dream that just felt like the waking world. It’s not, though. Jon really did kiss him on that rooftop. Jon really did admit that he felt that way. Jon really doesn’t hate Martin now that he knows, and he feels the same way for Martin as Martin has for Jon for years.

Neither of them quite knows where to go from here. The only thing they’ve done is told Sasha and Tim about it all, which both Jon and Martin awkwardly fumbled through because they have no idea how to tell their friends that they’re together now. Sasha just laughed and said that she already knew because both Jon and Martin are about as subtle as a brick wall. Tim rolled his eyes and told them to come to him for advice because clearly neither of them is very good at the whole relationship thing. He’s kind of right, but it doesn’t matter. Martin is happy, and so is Jon. Things are okay.

Martin doesn’t know what the next step is and Jon doesn’t seem to either. But that’s okay. They’re going to figure it out. It’s going to be easier when everything is over, when they’ve uncovered everything they need to, when they’ve stopped the Entities. And they’re going to do that. There _is_ going to be an after. There has to be.

It gets a bit easier to believe that when, two days after Martin told Jon about being the Weaver, Tim finds a lead.

He calls the other three to the table early in the afternoon, grinning widely. “The Underground,” he announces, adding no further elaboration.

There’s a moment of silence before Jon says “The… train tunnels?”

“Those were closed down ten years ago,” Sasha points out. “Not much new to learn there.”

“Yeah, and I’m not exactly- not exactly keen on getting lost down there.” Martin shudders. “Didn’t they close those because people died?”

“Eighteen of them,” Jon says. “Five went permanently missing and thirteen died in a collapse.” He pushes his glasses up and looks at Tim. “What’s down there to find?”

Tim shrugs. “Don’t know. But I think it’s something.” He rifles through the papers in front of him. “I was checking through some old files, seeing if there was anything- Here we go.” He pulls out several papers and lays them on the table. “A copy of the police reports about all the people who disappeared down in the Underground. These say that there were nearly two dozen of them.”

Sasha shakes her head. “That can’t be right. I’ve looked at those reports. Everything official says there were five.”

Tim grins. “They do. After someone requested the police change — ah, sorry, _correct_ — their reports. The name Enrique MacMillian ring any bells?”

“The Excavator,” Jon says. “One of the fist Buried superhumans, exposed and caught eight years ago.”

“Why would he care?” Martin asks. “Even if he did kill them down there, it’s not- it’s not like he cared that people knew he killed people.”

Tim holds up one of the papers to read it. “Ah, but here’s where things get interesting. There’s an addendum to his request to change the reports saying, and I quote, ‘Slandering an engineer by exaggerating the numbers of casualties.’”

Sasha frowns. “MacMillian didn’t design the Underground. He wasn’t an engineer; he owned a failing pawn shop.”

“And he didn’t design the Underground. He designed something underneath it.” Tim pulls out another paper. “There’s a transcribed interview from Mayor Lukas when the Underground first opened. He thanks all the engineers who actually designed it and one Enrique MacMillian for what he calls ‘the work below.’”

Jon leans forward. “Peter Lukas said that?”

Tim raises an eyebrow. “Unless you know another Mayor Lukas, yeah. Is that important or are you just being weird again?”

“Lukas is… he’s with the Entities, I think. I saw him in- in Shroud’s head when he possessed me.” Jon shifts, putting one hand into his pocket.

Martin nods. “Yeah, there’s- there’s something… wrong with him. I ran into him in here once and he felt… bad.”

“Creepy mayor aside, I think we might have something here. If the Excavator was involved with building something under the Underground-”

Jon interrupts before Tim finishes speaking. “We might be able to find something.”

“What if there _is_ something down there?” Martin says. “They closed the Underground for a reason. We could get lost, or get crushed, or- or maybe whatever’s under it is protected.”

“Which is why we take the team superhero,” Tim says.

“The team- Hang on, I haven’t _agreed_ to this,” Martin protests.

“I hate to say it, but I’m with Tim and Jon on this one,” Sasha says. “If we can get a lead that doesn’t involve one of us running blindly into danger…” She looks sharply at Jon. “We should take it. We can take precautions.”

She’s not wrong. Finding a lead as a group like this is the only way they can do this somewhat safely. Jon isn’t likely to try anything like Hither Green again, but they can’t just drop this investigation. It’s clearly bothering Jon a lot, and Tim’s dedicated enough to do this level of research, and Sasha wants to know just as much as the rest of them. Martin needs to know too. It’s not like this will just go away. They know what they know from Gertrude’s notes. They’re in danger because of that, and nothing is going to change until they see this through.

Whatever that means.

For now, it means following this lead.

Martin stands up and sighs heavily. “Fine. Let’s do this.”

It takes a couple hours for them to get into the Underground. They have to do a fair amount of preparation: getting torches, finding a map of the Underground, locating a way down. And breaking in. The entrances to the Underground have been closed off with locked gates to try and stop people from going down them. Not that there needs to be much effort; anyone with any sense knows not to go anywhere near the Underground.

It takes a while to find an entrance far enough away from anything that no one will see them breaking in. While the police in Scion City don’t care much about crimes like trespassing — they have supervillains to deal with, after all — it probably wouldn’t be great to be caught. Especially because Martin isn’t in his suit. There’s not much of a point to hiding his identity with his friends now that they know. Besides, maybe it won’t matter anyway. Maybe nothing bad will happen.

Martin chooses to believe that as Sasha opens the gate and they descend into the darkness of the Underground.

The stairs seem longer than they should be. Martin tries not to think about it. Tries not to think about the people that have died down here. Tries not to think about the endless tunnels twisting and turning in directions that don’t ever match the maps. Tries not to imagine what it would be like to be trapped down there. Tries not to imagine what could possibly be beneath it.

No one speaks when they reach the bottom of the stairs. They just stop to turn on their torches. The light from the surface is gone. The light from the torches seems too dim. There’s no sound but their breathing, but the silence feels like it’s pulling Martin into it, a yawning abyss he’ll fall into if he doesn’t stop it. Martin briefly tries to feel through the webs, but forgoes that idea as soon as he has it. It feels wrong down here. It feels heavy.

“Well,” Tim says, trepidation creeping in the edges of his voice. “This is lovely.”

“Phone’s gone dead,” Sasha says, putting her phone back in her pocket. “And my camera’s out.”

“Electronics don’t work in the Underground.” Jon shines his torch down the tunnel ahead, squinting into the darkness.

Martin looks at the map, turning it around a few times to see if it makes more sense another way. “I can’t- I can’t tell where we are. That tunnel isn’t supposed to go that way.”

“Well, there’s only one way to go,” Jon says. “I suppose we should just… go that way.”

They fall into silence again. None of them moves except for Martin putting the map away in his pocket. None of them wants to go forward. For all Tim’s talk about bringing down the Entities and Sasha’s natural curiosity and Jon’s compulsive need for knowledge, none of them wants to go any farther into the Underground.

Finally, Martin makes himself walk forward. He’s the superhero. This is his job. “Follow me, I- I guess.”

No one responds. It feels… bad to speak down here. How anyone actually used this when the trains were running, Martin doesn’t know. It’s awful. The walls seem like they’re pressing closer with every step. The ceiling seems to lower, the tunnels themselves compress. And then sometimes it all gets bigger, like some massive creature is slowly inhaling, exhaling, expanding, contracting; a beast whose mouth Martin and his friends have willingly walked into. Something that could consume them without even sparing a thought and wouldn’t even have to try to do it.

They shouldn’t be down here. No one should ever be down here. Martin shouldn’t be down here. Something could be happening up on the surface, something he’s going to be too late to stop, something that’s going to kill people. And Martin is going to be stuck down here, looking for… What are they even looking for? Why are they down here? They shouldn’t be down here. The down here doesn’t want them inside of it and it’s going to kill them, crush them or starve them inside infinite twisting passageways under the earth, going deeper and deeper and smaller and smaller until they suffocate, drowning under the dirt and the concrete and-

Martin is so caught up in the growing anxiety that he nearly runs facefirst into a wall. The only reason he doesn’t is Tim catching his arm with a quiet “Watch where you’re going.”

“Sorry, I didn’t- I, uh…” Martin trails off, not bothering to finish his thought. “Where- which way do we go?”

They’ve arrived at a split in the tunnel. There shouldn’t be a split in the tunnel. This entire place is wrong. There aren’t any tracks, or any platforms, or any trains. It’s just the flat floor and the ceiling and the walls that seem like they’re pressing tighter and tighter.

Sasha’s voice comes out of the darkness somewhere behind Martin. “Jon, what are you- Where the hell are you going?”

Martin turns to see Jon starting to wander down the path to the left. “It’s… I can feel… There’s something this way. It’s this way.” Jon’s voice is distant and wavering. Scared. “I don’t- I don’t…” He lets out a ragged breath. “It’s this way.”

“What’s this- What are you talking about?” Martin says.

Jon shakes his head. “I don’t know. It’s- I- I know we need to go this way.” Hesitantly, he starts to walk down the tunnel.

“Ah, goddammit,” Tim mutters as he and the others follow Jon. “We couldn’t just have a _normal_ investigation into the creepy bullshit tunnels?”

The four of them stick close together, following Jon’s lead. He seems to know where he’s going. Or at least, he thinks he knows where he’s going. Maybe he doesn’t. Maybe they’re going to get lost forever down here. Maybe they’re going to be trapped in these tunnels with the thick, stale air and the terrible crushing heaviness and the feeling of being consumed by the earth itself.

Martin hates these fucking tunnels.

Martin strings along a line of web as they walk to make sure they can find the way back. They follow Jon and take turns at his direction, hoping he’s actually going toward something. This goes on for a long time. Too long a time. Time seems to be stretching down here. How long have they been down here? An hour? Three hours? Martin can’t tell. And for all of Martin’s anxiety, it’s clear the others aren’t doing very well either. Tim’s made a few nervous jokes about how shitty the situation is. Sasha has her shoulders squared and jaw clenched, her torch held tightly in her hand. Jon’s breathing is heavy and shaking.

Then, after what seems like an eternity, Jon stops. “I think- I think this is where… Something’s here.”

“Yeah, there are certainly… some walls,” Sasha says.

This tunnel looks like all the rest: floor, ceiling, two walls, pressing just a bit too close together. There’s nothing different here, no sign that this is where they need to be. Martin twists the end of his web around his hand, trying to pull comfort through its length. He doesn’t want to feel anything now, but he can almost sense the other end of the long, long web, the way back out of this place. He wants to follow it. He wants to leave.

Tim sighs and leans against a wall for a moment, shining his torch at the floor. “Should’ve known this would be nothing.”

“There has to be something here, Tim,” Sasha says. “All of your research-”

“Oh, fuck the research. It’s not like anything in this goddamn city makes sense anyway.” Tim is acting outwardly frustrated, but the cracking in his voice betrays his true feelings: he’s scared.

Sasha keeps talking to Tim, but Martin tunes her out. He’s preoccupied with Jon. Jon is still standing in the center of the tunnel, holding his torch out in front of him, the other hand holding something tightly in his pocket.

Martin steps up to Jon. “Are you alright?” he asks.

Jon jolts out of his daze, flinching slightly at the sound of Martin’s voice. “I, um… I don’t know. It’s… I shouldn’t know where to go. I’ve never been here before. I- I don’t even know what we’re looking for. I don’t know…” He pauses for a few long seconds before he continues. “I know things I shouldn’t know. It’s… I- I don’t like it.”

Martin can’t think of anything to say, so he reaches out to touch Jon’s arm. Jon lets go of whatever he’s holding in his pocket to clasp Martin’s hand. Now that they’re touching, Martin can feel Jon’s tension, a tension that lessens ever so slightly with their contact. It helps Martin too. The feeling of Jon’s hand is… well, perhaps grounding isn’t the best word to use, considering the circumstances. Still, it’s nice. It’s nice to be able to have this contact. It’s nice to have a reminder of this new relationship, these feelings that Martin can finally act on now that he knows Jon returns them.

That feeling of momentary comfort doesn’t last long. The uneasy fear that’s been hanging over Martin since they first entered the Underground begins to grow, twisting inside him until it seems like it will crush him. Jon squeezes Martin’s hand and swings his torch around the tunnel. Aside from Sasha and Tim, who irritatedly tells Jon to stop shining the light in his face, there’s nothing else here. It feels like there’s something here. Martin doesn’t want to sense through the webs, but there’s something hanging on the edge of his perception, something that fills his body with tense foreboding.

Then the torches go out.

There’s a moment of heavy silence before Jon mutters “Shit.”

Then the web wrapped around the hand Martin’s holding the torch with pulls violently, yanking Martin’s arm back and sending the torch flying away and smashing into the wall. Martin shouts, letting go of Jon and spinning, reaching into the webs both for sense and attack. It takes him a moment to process what pulled the web, but he lowers his hands as soon as he realizes who it is. It’s Tim, who moved off his position at the wall and proceeded to trip over Martin’s web line.

The next few seconds are filled with more confused shouting. Jon staggers away from Martin, tripping over his own feet and falling. Sasha turns in a circle, torch held in front of her protectively. Tim, still on the ground, throws his torch, narrowly missing Martin’s head. It’s only then that Martin remembers that none of them can see and none of them have extrasensory powers.

“It’s okay, we’re okay, it’s fine!” Martin shouts over the commotion, holding his hands up even though no one else can see him.

It takes a moment for everyone to calm down (as much as they can, anyway) again. “This is the opposite of _fine_ , Martin,” Tim hisses as he gets to his feet.

Jon reaches into his pocket once he’s standing, and a moment later, he flicks on the lighter he’s holding in one hand. The light is dim and barely illuminates Jon’s face, much less anything else around.

“I- I think this may not have been the best idea,” Jon says, laughing nervously.

“We should go back,” Martin says. “There’s nothing here to-”

Martin doesn’t get to finish his sentence. It wouldn’t matter if he could, because in that moment, he’s proven very wrong. The world begins to shake. Well, not the world, not really, but that’s what it feels like. Martin is nearly knocked off his feet by the force of the ground bucking and jumping beneath him. Dust falls from the ceiling in clouds, chokingly thick. A loud, low rumbling echoes through the tunnels, and Martin almost thinks that somehow there’s a train down here. Or a monster, some hulking beast they’ve been tempting by wandering into its domain.

Just as soon as the shaking started, it stops. Martin lets out an inadvertent sigh of relief. Jon turns the lighter back on to illuminate what little it can. Sasha coughs and brushes dust out of her hair. Tim rolls his shoulders and takes a few blind and aimless steps. The four of them take a moment to recover before doing anything else.

And then the floor drops out from under them and they fall, plummeting into the dark and endless abyss of earth beneath them. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this chapter has allowed me to discover the one good thing that came out of my attempt at a novel in like eight grade: the chapter title "Subway Adventure Part One: Uh Oh!" which I think is a pretty apt description of what's going on right now.


	30. Chapter 30

Martin should be used to falling. He isn’t. Especially not here, not now, not so far under the ground, not so far down in the choking dark and crushing heaviness.

The fall seems to take forever. Martin can’t tell which way is up and which way is down. He can’t even feel air moving around him, not like when he’s fallen on the surface. The air down here is so thick it’s almost solid. The only reason Martin knows he’s falling is the sensation of the fall itself, of his body going one direction and everything inside him wanting desperately to go the other.

And then it’s over. The impact is almost as awful as the fall itself. Martin lands badly, knocking all the air out of him and nearly smashing his face into the ground. He doesn’t think anything’s broken, but everything hurts so much it’s impossible to tell. Somewhere near him, someone groans. Even in the utter dark, Martin can tell it’s Jon.

“Ugh, fuck,” says the voice of Sasha off to Martin’s left. “Is everyone- ow, goddamn- shit.”

“Fine here,” Tim says, then yelps in pain. “Ah, fuck, not fine.”

“Well, I’m not- I’m not dead,” Jon wheezes beside Martin. “Don’t know if I can say much else.”

“I’m alright.” Martin tries to get to his feet, but up is still down and down is still up and he decides to just lay on the floor. “Mostly.”

In the relative calm that follows, Martin takes stock of the situation. He doesn’t have any broken bones, but a lot of him hurts and there’s something wrong with his hand. On closer inspection, he realizes that the line of web he was trailing behind him so they wouldn’t get lost is snapped, part of it embedded deep in his skin. He’s lucky it broke and didn’t just cut off half the hand. He has to dematerialize the web to get it out, and as soon as he does, the blood starts to flow freely and the cutting pain intensifies.

Everything around them is quiet and dark. The only thing Martin can hear is his breathing and the breathing of the other three, along with occasional pained noises when someone moves. He can’t see anything. It’s an even deeper darkness when they were up in the Underground earlier. It feels like it’s suffocating him.

It takes Martin a while to work up the nerve to extend his senses again. It feels wrong down here. He doesn’t want to feel it.

They’re somewhere under the ground. That’s about as much as Martin can tell. He can’t even feel the hole they fell through. There’s just a lot of dirt and rock and concrete and the sensation of heaviness. He doesn’t want to be down here. He wants to leave. He needs to leave. He needs to get out. There is no out. They can’t get back out here. They’re trapped down here. They’re lost.

No. No panicking. The air is already so thick and heavy, breathing already difficult enough.

So Martin stops focusing on his surroundings and checks on his friends. Jon is sitting up, feeling the ground around him, probably looking for his lighter. Tim is laying on the ground, holding his side. Sasha is clutching one arm close to her body, groping blindly with the other one to try and get her bearings. They’re okay. At least, they’re mostly okay. Okay enough.

“Where the-” Jon coughs dust and dirt before he can continue speaking. “Where the hell are we?”

“Under the Underground.” Tim groans as he sits up, gingerly taking his hand off his side.

“Yeah, I think we all get that.” Sasha hisses in pain when she moves her arm. “Damn.”

“Ha!” Jon’s exclamation echoes tightly in the space around them. “Found it.”

He turns on his lighter, which he must have finally found on the ground. The light doesn’t help much. And it’s probably not going to help Jon much either, since he appears to have lost his glasses in the fall. Of course, it doesn’t matter if he can’t see because it’s too dark to see anyway. It’s so dark. Martin isn’t really scared of the dark, not as much as he knows Jon is now, but it’s still awful to be nearly completely blind like this.

It will be awful to die like this.

No. It won’t be. They’re not going to die down here. Martin can’t die down here. His friends can’t die down here. He can’t let them die down here. He can’t let Tim die without giving him the chance to bring down the system that killed his brother. He can’t let Sasha die without being able to help anyone, having to watch her friends die with her. He can’t let Jon die with so many questions unanswered. He can’t let Jon die when he and Martin have so much to explore together, so many more steps in the new relationship they’ve made.

He can’t let them die down here. They’re not going to die down here. Martin is going to get them out.

He is the superhero, after all.

“Okay. I, um…” Martin says, swallowing to rid his throat of some of the dust. “We need to figure out where we are.”

“Oh, really?” Tim says. “I never would have thought of that.”

“We’re, uh, we’re down somewhere… The Below. We’re in the Below,” Jon says, though Martin can’t tell if it’s to the others or to himself.

“How do we get _out_ of the Below?” Sasha asks.

Jon hesitates before answering. “I… don’t know. It’s hard to think down here.”

“Great,” Tim says. “Well, I guess we know where all those people died now.”

“There must be something down here,” Jon insists. “It doesn’t- it doesn’t make sense for there to be nothing.”

“Yeah, the bodies are probably down here somewhere,” Tim says.

“No, there- there must be something important, I-”

“Oh, you had the _feeling_ there might be something important. Obviously it’s fine that you led us straight to our deaths, then!”

“Stop it! Both of you!” Sasha snaps.

They do. And in the quiet, Martin can concentrate. He doesn’t want to feel what’s around them, but he has to. They can’t see well enough to navigate just by Jon’s lighter. Jon can’t tell where they are, so Martin has to figure it out.

The space they’re in feels dark and heavy. There’s a lot of earth around them, above them and below them and surrounding them. Except it’s not surrounding them on all sides. There’s a passageway a ways to Martin’s right, low and tight but there. A way out. Or, if not, a way somewhere else.

“I think I know a way out,” Martin says, standing up.

They spend the next couple minutes trying to regroup. The others can’t see, so Martin has to help them. Sasha and Jon can both stand on their own, but Tim needs help getting up. His leg doesn’t seem broken, but there’s definitely something wrong with it based on the heavy limp he adopts as soon as he’s standing. It takes some time to get Tim and Jon and Sasha into a line, hands clasped together so Martin can lead them through.

The passageway is a tight fit. It’s easy enough for Martin to navigate blind, but the others are having trouble. Jon put the lighter away to avoid setting anyone on fire while they squeeze through the passageway, so he, Tim, and Sasha can’t see anything. Even with Martin guiding them, not more than three seconds passes between someone hitting their head or running into the side of the passageway or tripping over a crack or small incline.

It takes them a while to get anywhere. Martin keeps attempting to extend his senses, to feel where they’re going, but it’s difficult to sense anything beyond a few steps ahead. So he keeps walking, keeps taking those few steps ahead. The passageway splits in multiple directions every few steps. Martin doesn’t know where to go. So he just keeps going forward, hoping that he’s taking the right path.

Martin leads the others through the passageway for several minutes before they get out. Or, more accurately, they fall out. Suddenly there isn’t a floor when Martin takes a step, and he falls, dragging the others with him. This fall isn’t nearly as bad as the last one, but it still doesn’t feel good when Martin hits the ground, Jon and Tim and Sasha landing mostly on top of him.

“Sorry,” Martin mumbles into the ground, not sure if he’s saying it to the others or to himself.

No one else seems to be paying attention to Martin. “Oh, shit,” Sasha says, shifting her weight off Martin’s back as she stands.

Martin pushes himself out from underneath Tim and Jon and immediately sees what has their attention. Light. It’s light. Martin can see. Small fluorescent strips line the floor and ceiling, which are an actual floor and ceiling made of concrete. They’ve fallen into a small room. It’s almost completely bare except for a heavy steel door on one side and a very old computer and what looks like a couple large, backwards facing filing cabinets on the other.

“Huh,” Tim says as Jon helps him to his feet. “Guess there is something down here after all.”

Once Tim is steady, Jon turns and holds out his hand for Martin. “Yes, this is… this is what we were looking for.”

Martin grabs Jon’s hand and pulls himself to his feet. “What is this place?”

Jon tries to adjust his glasses, frowning when they aren’t there. “I… I don’t know. I can’t… Whatever led me here is gone and I- I don’t know what this is. We’re too deep.”

“Too deep for what?” Tim asks. “Why would being too deep matter for your weird psychic powers or whatever bullshit is going on?”

Jon shakes his head. “This is… It’s built by something else. The Buried, most likely. I can’t think well down here.”

“I can’t feel very much,” Martin adds, elaborating when Sasha raises an eyebrow. “I can normally feel through the webs, but down here… down here it's hard to feel anything.”

“So, we’ve clearly found _something_ ,” Sasha says, walking over to the computer. “This thing’s pretty old, but I might be able to get something off it.” She presses the power button. Nothing happens. “Or maybe not.”

“Is it plugged in?” Tim says.

“Yes, it’s plugged-” Sasha frowns. “Jon, can you get back there?” She lifts her broken arm. “I’m not very mobile at the moment.”

“I think I can fit,” Jon says, stepping forward to lean behind one of the massive filing cabinets.

He manages to squeeze himself between the filing cabinets and the wall to get at the back of the computer. It takes him a minute and a decent amount of irritated grunting, but he gets to the computer and the monitor hums to life.

“There’s something else back here.” Jon’s voice is slightly muffled. “I think I can reach- Shit!”

Martin darts forward despite the fact that there’s no way he could fit between the filing cabinet and the wall. “Jon?” His shout is echoed by Tim and Sasha as they both press against the wall to try and see what’s happening.

Jon shoves his way back out, stumbling and colliding with Martin. “Shit,” he says again, breathing heavily, brushing dust off himself.

“What- Are you okay?” Martin asks, hovering around Jon, checking him for any injury aside from the scrapes and bruises the four of them have already procured.

“There’s a, um, there was a body back there,” Jon says, inhaling a few times to regain his composure. “It was… decomposed — skeletal — stuffed inside a drawer. I just… didn’t- didn’t expect it to be there.”

“Skeletons,” Tim says with a light nervous laugh. “Wonderful. That’s not ominous at all.”

“Not skeletons,” Jon says, also laughing nervously. “Just the- just the one.”

“Lovely,” Sasha mumbles as she goes starts trying to get the computer to work.

“How did- What happened?” Martin asks, even as his mind runs through countless scenarios of ways to die down here.

“I- I don’t- I can’t…” Jon closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. “He didn’t want to die. He never wanted to die. He was supposed to live forever. It was supposed to keep him safe. It was supposed to let him become…” Jon’s eyes snap back open and he sways, looking disoriented and distant. “I’m… Too much. It’s too much. I…”

His eyes roll up into his head and he slumps limply, only stopped from collapsing completely by Martin catching him. Tim holds his hands out to steady Martin as Martin staggers a bit under Jon’s weight. Sasha’s attention snaps back up from the computer and she looks to Jon with concern, asking a question Martin doesn’t have enough awareness to actually comprehend. Martin is much more focused on holding Jon and figuring out what the hell is happening.

“Jon? Can you hear me?” Martin says, adjusting Jon in his arms to better support him.

Jon doesn’t response. Martin can feel him breathing, so he’s not dead. But he’s completely limp and apparently not conscious, or at least not able to respond. Martin doesn’t know what to do. He needs Jon to wake up. He doesn’t know how to fix this, but he needs to fix this.

Then, just as suddenly as he collapsed, Jon jolts back upright, sucking in a gasp of air as his eyes snap back open. He steps away from Martin and stumbles back into Sasha, who helps set him back on his feet. Jon stands there looking disoriented, holding his head.

“Are you okay?” Martin asks, unable to keep the heavy nervousness from his voice.

“I’m fine.” Jon’s voice is raspy and tired and heavy, but he gives Martin a weak smile. “I just… I want to get out of here.”

“I think we all want to get out of here,” Tim says. “Doesn’t mean we’re all doing… whatever the hell that was.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?” Sasha says, giving Jon a look.

Jon waves a hand dismissively. “I’m fine,” he asserts, turning to the computer. “Have you found anything?”

Sasha blinks, taking a second to reorient herself after the shift in subject. “Um… maybe?” She turns back to the computer, tapping at the keyboard. “Most of it’s encrypted.”

Jon, Tim, and Martin crowd behind her, all trying to read over her shoulder. Martin can’t read most of it; it’s just a random jumble of numbers and letters. Sasha keeps scrolling through it, shaking her head.

“I don’t know if this even means anything,” she mumbles. “It’s not code, it’s… Hang on.”

Four words scroll onto the screen, the font larger than all the others. And they are words, words that make sense. A name: Sergey Ushanka.

The next two words make Martin’s breath catch in his throat. ‘Project Architect.’

“That’s- that’s the thing that…” Tim trails off, apparently about as able to form a complete thought as Martin is right now.

“There- there must be more. Files, or- or something else,” Jon says, leaning close enough that he’s almost shoving Sasha out of the way.

“There is,” Sasha says, frustration lacing her voice. “I just can’t read any of it. If I had time to… Oh, goddammit.”

More words flash onto the computer, the same phrase repeated over and over. ‘You’re not supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to be here. You’re not supposed to be here.’ The words fill the whole monitor, multiplying even when Sasha pulls her hands away.

“I, uh, I think we should take that as a sign,” Martin says, biting down the fear rising within him.

Suddenly the computer flashes brightly, almost blinding under the dim glow of the fluorescent strips. Then it goes completely black, just as it had been before it was turned on.

“Agreed,” Jon says.

It takes Martin a moment to get the door open, even with his extra strength. It’s heavy and old and rusted slightly shut, so when he finally does manage to push it, it swings so suddenly he falls flat on his face outside. He hears someone stifle a small laugh behind him, though he isn’t quite sure who it is. He climbs back to his feet and surveys what’s outside the door.

It’s a hallway, long and concrete and lit with the same dim fluorescent strips as the computer room. The hallway feels… strange. Martin can’t feel much through the webs, but he can feel _something_ , somewhere. A dull dread building deep inside him. Down the hallway, on either side, there are more branching hallways, leading off in countless directions that will take ages to navigate. They’re going to get lost down here, and while this isn’t quite as bad as the dark cave under the Underground, something tells Martin that this is not a good place to be.

“Where _are_ we?” Tim says as he and Sasha step out behind Martin.

Jon emerges from the room, standing close to Martin, still looking slightly unsteady. “I don’t know.”

“We need to go,” Martin says as the feeling of nauseating unease continues to rise.

“Oh, and I guess you know the way out of here?” Tim snaps, and Martin knows that he’s not alone in the feeling of mounting fear.

“I, uh…” Jon says. “I could try to-”

“No, you can’t,” Sasha interrupts. “We don’t need you passing out right now.”

Jon seems like he’s about to protest, but he stops before he even says a word. “Yes, you’re- you’re probably right.”

Tim groans, sounding irritated. “We’re never going to get out of here if we stand around talking about it. Let’s just go this way.”

Tim starts walking down the hallway in one direction. Martin wants to stop him, keep him from going anywhere. They should just go back into the computer room and stay there. It would be so much more safe. Except it wouldn’t be, and Martin knows that. So he follows Tim, Jon and Sasha close behind him.

Tim doesn’t know where they’re going. None of them do. But Tim keeps going, leading the way even though he’s a bit slower than usual and his limp gets worse as time goes on. The hallways look exactly the same as they walk through them, but the fear Martin’s feeling continued to grow. He’s not sure how long they walk. Minutes, hours, days? It doesn’t matter. It feels like an eternity.

And then they find the lift. It looks old, just like everything else down here, but it’s there. It’s there. It’s a way out of this place. Martin kind of wants to cry out of the relief as Tim steps forward to press the call button.

Martin can’t feel much — anything at all, really — through the webs down here, but he can still sense it when the edges begin to burn. He stops breathing, stops moving, stops thinking. Burning. It’s burning. There’s only one person he knows that can do that, and she can’t be here, she can’t. He can’t do this. He doesn’t want to die down here. He’s going to. He can’t fight her. She’s going to burn him and there will be nothing left and he’s never going to see the surface again and she’s going to kill Jon and Tim and Sasha and Martin can’t let that happen. He needs to stop her, but he can’t, he’s frozen, he doesn’t know where she is, doesn’t know how the fuck she’s here-

Fireball rounds a corner and emerges into the hallway. She isn’t on fire, not visibly, but her skin is slightly melted and Martin can feel the heat, even from this distance. The others see her too. None of them says anything. Tim is the only one who moves, jabbing the button for the lift frantically and repeatedly.

Fireball looks at Martin, tilting her head. She says nothing.

Martin opens his mouth. Then shuts his mouth. Then opens his mouth. He can’t talk. He can’t think of anything to say. Tim slams on the button one more time before Sasha catches his hand to get him to stop. The lift still doesn’t open.

“Martin…” Jon murmurs, touching his shoulder to Martin’s, trying to provide what security and comfort he can.

Fireball locks eyes with Martin, her face unchanging. She doesn’t attack. Doesn’t even step forward. She just holds eye contact, pinning Martin in place. He wants to collapse. He wants to lay on the ground and curl into a ball and cry and wait for her to kill him. He can feel the smoke in his lungs. He can feel the twin scars in his shoulders where her fingers gouged into him. He can feel his skin burning all over again. He needs to stop her. Needs to protect the others. But he can’t. He can’t move.

The lift dings and the ancient doors slide slowly open. No one moves. Slowly, Fireball nods, finally breaking eye contact. Then she turns and walks back the way she came.

As soon as she’s gone, Martin can move again. The others can too, and they all shove themselves into the lift just as the doors begin to slide shut again. There’s only one unlabeled button on the inside, which Martin presses. The space of the lift is tight and claustrophobic, but at the moment, Martin couldn’t care less. He’s alive. They’re alive.

“She didn’t kill us,” Sasha says in wonderment as the lift begins to ascend, slow and unstable.

“She’s supposed to be in the Tunnels,” Tim says.

“Well, these are- these are tunnels,” Jon jokes, but he isn’t wrong.

The further they dig into this conspiracy, the more corruption they find. Elias is with the Entities. The mayor is with the Entities. The superheroes are with the Entities. At least some members of the police seem to be with the Entities, at least according to Tim’s research. Why would the prison system not be? After all, if the Entities control Scion City, what’s the point of jailing the superhumans who happen to end up in the Tunnels, especially since half the conflicts are manufactured anyway?

No one speaks as the lift continues moving. It takes forever, though if it’s because the lift is slow or the journey up is long or some combination of the two, Martin can’t tell. Eventually, it stops and the doors slide open.

Martin steps out without even paying attention to where they are. He stiffens in surprise when he feels the breeze and the cold night air. They’re on the surface.

Sasha laughs in relief. “We made it.”

“We made it,” Martin echoes, needing to say the words just to make sure what’s happening is real.

“Where- where are we?” Jon says, squinting at their surroundings and trying to push up his missing glasses again.

The lift doors close behind them. The lift is part of an unassuming brick wall in an alleyway, almost completely featureless and unrecognizable. Once the doors are closed, it’s hard to tell that the lift is even there; it’s painted to look like the wall around it and the lack of light makes it hard to see. Martin doesn’t know where they are. He doesn’t particularly care.

Tim voices Martin’s thoughts. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just go.”

The four of them walk through the alley and out onto the street. The street lamps cast a bright glow on the buildings around them. A few cars drive past. Lights are on in the buildings around them. They really have made it to the surface; they didn’t die in the Underground or wherever the hell they were below it. They really did make it out, together and relatively okay.

They have a lot to think about, a lot to talk about, a lot of things they learned and even more things to be afraid of. But that can wait.

For now, they can just revel in the fact that they’re alive. 


	31. Chapter 31

(Excerpt from a live streamed video on the YouTube channel Superhuman Spotting run by Melanie King, aired on 22nd November, 2018.)

[The camera shows the remains of a church. The roof is gone and most of the furniture has been taken, leaving only the floor and walls, which are stained a dark brown and covered in scratch marks. Melanie is narrating as she rotates the camera to show more of the destroyed church.]

Melanie: This is the last place the Hellhound was sighted. Technically it’s illegal for me to be here, since it’s still part of an active police investigation, but as long as none of you tell, I’m sure no one will mind.

[She turns the camera around to catch half her face in the frame. She winks.]

Melanie: After being killed — or apparently _not_ being killed — by Shroud four years ago, the Hellhound reappeared here, killing nineteen people in- Oh, shit!

[The camera moves jerkily as Melanie turns it toward one of the walls. There is a door there that wasn’t before. The door is open and emerging from it is Helen, one half of the Distortion.]

Melanie: (sighs) Helen, what are you doing here?

Helen: I want to ask you for a favor.

Melanie: A... favor?

Helen: I need your camera.

Melanie: You need my- What?

Helen: I’ll give you a, oh, what do you call it, an IOU?

Melanie: Why should I- Oh, forget it. Here.

[She walks over to Helen and places the camera in one of her misshapen hands. Helen turns the camera up to point it at Melanie’s face.]

Melanie: I expect you to give it back. And for you to give me another proper guest appearance.

Helen: Of course.

[Helen takes the camera through her door. The video continues, but the visual is almost completely gone, filled only with shifting iridescent shapes and vague reflections of Helen’s distorted body. The feed continues like this for several minutes before Helen exits the Distortion corridors.]

\---

“Well, I suppose that could have been worse,” Sasha says from her place sitting on the hospital cot as she waits for the doctor to return.

Tim snorts and adjusts the ice pack on his leg. “Yeah, there were a couple things in there that could have gone much worse.”

Martin taps his fingers against the arm of his chair, looking a bit distant. “Yeah.” He shifts and turns to look at Jon. “Jon? Are you okay?”

“Hm? Oh, I- um, yes. I’m- I’m fine.”

That couldn’t be much further from the truth. Jon isn’t physically injured, not like Sasha with her broken arm or Tim with his sprained ankle or Martin with the cut around his hand that he’s badly hiding with his shirt. There are scratches and bruises, of course, they all have those, but Jon’s issue is much more… internal. His head is killing him. But the headache isn’t the worst part.

No, that was when he felt himself die.

Well, not himself. It was the man, the unfortunate man Jon suspects was Sergey Ushanka that had died in the computer room in the Below, alone and afraid. Jon had tried to find out what happened and in the process had done… something. He’s not sure what. He doesn’t know how he did it. All he knows is that he somehow pulled through the final moments of that man’s life and felt them like they were his own. It may not be the worst thing Jon has ever experienced — that honor probably goes to Shroud — but feeling a person die like he was dying… That, combined with the fact that Jon shouldn’t be able to _do_ that (and the nausea and the searing headache and the horrible sensation like he was drowning and the feeling that his eyes would burst out of his skull and the crippling, choking _fear_ ) has made the entire situation unideal, to say the least.

He’s scared. He should be used to that. But he’s not, and he doesn’t think he ever will be.

“Wonder if my healthcare benefits will cover this,” Sasha muses. “For someone who probably wants us dead, Elias pays us pretty well.”

Tim starts to say something in reply but is interrupted by a door opening. Not the actual door into the hospital room, but a door that had not been there a moment before.

“Ah, shit,” Martin mutters as the door opens.

Helen steps out, holding something Jon can’t see past her twisted hand. “There’s no need to be rude.”

“Oh, well, sorry for not being in the mood to deal with your bullshit right after we almost died,” Tim grumbles.

Sasha sighs. “Helen, why are you here?”

Helen’s grin widens. “I have something for you.”

That’s enough to fully pique Jon’s interest. “What is it?”

She extends her hand toward Tim, who leans back as much as he can. “Uh, no thanks,” he says.

“She’s fine, Tim,” Sasha says, pushing herself off the cot with her good arm to step over to Helen. “If she wanted to hurt us, she would have done it already.”

“See? A little bit of good manners goes a long way.” Helen hands the thing she’s holding to Sasha.

Sasha looks it over. “A… camera?”

“I’d suggest you use it,” Helen says.

“Use it?” Jon echoes, feeling like he shouldn’t be as confused as he is. “For what?”

Helen winks. Or, at least, it looks like she winks, but it’s a bit hard to tell with her face like it is. “To record, of course. Sometimes it’s good to have someone watching.”

With that, she opens her door and leaves.

“Huh,” Martin says. “That was… weird.”

Jon stands from his chair, grateful for the distraction. “Is it just a camera?”

Sasha frowns at the camera in her hand, looking it over for several seconds. “As far as I can tell.”

Tim scoffs. “Oh, please. When is something _just_ anything with the Distortion?”

“This camera, I guess.” Sasha holds the camera up to her face. “It’s still recording. I think it’s set to-”

She’s interrupted when the door opens, the real door this time. She sits back down on the cot and Jon goes back to his chair as the doctor walks back in, clipboard in his hands. It’s the same doctor, the same man who came in before. But he feels… different. Off. Not much, but just enough to tell that something is wrong.

The doctor frowns. “Where did you get that?”

The question seems to be addressed to Sasha, so Jon doesn’t answer. Instead, he looks at the doctor. His name tag (though it takes Jon several seconds and a good deal of squinting to be able to read it without his glasses) says that his name is Tom Haan. That’s important. Jon _knows_ it’s important. But he also knows that he’s never heard that name before. Haan looks completely normal. But there’s something about him…

“Oh, it’s, um, it’s just my friend’s camera he was showing me.” Sasha stands and hands the camera to Tim, but she leaves it on and recording. She knows something isn’t quite right the same as Jon does.

Haan glares in Tim’s direction, then at Martin, then at Jon. “Hm,” he says before he directs his attention to Sasha.

Tim keeps the camera on. Haan works on Sasha’s arm, silent except for the occasional comment or question. The room is uncomfortably quiet. Tim shifts restlessly in his chair, holding the camera. Jon looks to Martin. Martin is looking nervous. He can sense something is off.

As Haan starts to talk to Sasha about what to do with her broken arm for the next month, Jon leans over to Martin. “What do you feel?” he whispers.

Martin shakes his head slightly. “It’s… I can’t tell. I- He feels too big.”

So something is definitely wrong. Jon leans back, bracing himself on the arms of the chair. Then he focuses on Haan. No, not focuses. He does something _else_. He’s not sure what it is, exactly, but he _knows_ because of it. He knows that Haan is not entirely human. He knows that Haan is part of the Flesh. And he knows Haan’s thoughts. The thoughts he gathers from Haan are incomplete, barely coherent, but he does get them.

_Kill them. No. Others watching. Have to kill them. Cannot kill them. Camera. Witnesses now._

The thoughts fragment and turn into memories. Haan speaking to the thing Shroud had talked to, the thing with a voice that was not a voice. The Architect. The Architect, that was in some place that to Jon looked almost familiar, a place of featureless concrete. Haan carving away pieces of animals and humans and things too mutilated to tell what they once were, using butcher knives and scalpels and his own hands turned sharp by bones. Haan taking a job here at this hospital, unhappy to discontinue his butchery but more than happy to fulfill what his purpose should be.

Jon tries to push farther, but a wave of fresh pain explodes through his head and he has to clench his teeth to keep from screaming. He can’t stop a small whimper from escaping as he claws at the arms of the chair, breathing shallow, eyes closed tightly. The pain ebbs quickly, but the fear takes its place. He doesn’t want anyone else in his head. He’s already had that happen once, and it can’t happen again. He can’t have someone else in his mind. That can’t happen again.

And then he’s back, back in the dark chapel, choking on shadows, possessed by something not himself. Pain and terror and dread and hopelessness returning to him all at once. The feeling of certainty that he’s going to die in the dark made to do things he doesn’t want to, no longer in control of any part of his body.

He feels Martin’s hand on his arm. “Jon?”

“I… um…” Jon inhales sharply when moving his mouth makes the pain flare briefly. “It’s… it’s nothing.”

Martin gives him a look to let Jon know he realizes something is wrong, but doesn’t press the issue further. He can’t, not with Haan in the room. So Jon just reaches out to clasp Martin’s uninjured hand, squeezing as tightly as he dares. While that doesn’t make the panic stop, it helps. It helps enough.

Eventually, Haan finishes with whatever he’s telling Sasha and walks back to the door. He opens it and gestures for the four of them to leave, lips drawn in a tight line, tension etched across his face. Tim stands with a heavy sigh, pointing the camera at the floor but still not ending the recording. Martin helps pull Jon shakily to his feet, taking even more care to hide his injured hand to make sure Haan can’t delay them further. Haan says nothing else, just watches them. Jon can feel Haan’s eyes on his back with every unsteady step.

“What the fuck was that?” Tim says as soon as they’re far enough away.

“He wanted to kill us,” Jon says, probably more nonchalantly than is appropriate.

“Oh, joy,” Sasha says, rubbing at the cast on her arm. “How’d you figure it out?”

“I read his mind.”

There’s a long moment of silence before Sasha says “Ah.”

“What- Was he superhuman?” Martin asks, even though he must know the answer.

Jon nods. “Flesh.”

Tim makes a face. “Great.” He examines the ice pack in his hand and drops it onto a cart as a nurse pushes it past. “Well, I guess he’d probably be a good surgeon.”

That’s the moment Jon realizes how close they came to dying. If he hadn’t already been on edge, if Martin had dismissed his concerns, if Helen hadn’t given them the camera, if Haan had managed to get the camera away from them… Haan would have caught them off guard. Even with Martin there, facing a Flesh superhuman unprepared and tired and injured… It wouldn’t have gone well. And to die like that, to die of anyone with powers of the Flesh… There are worse ways to die (possessed and alone and afraid in the dark), but it certainly wouldn’t be pleasant. Haan probably could have done it, exhausted and unaware as they were.

“Wait,” Sasha says, taking the camera from Tim. “Is this- Why did he stop?”

“The camera,” Jon says. “Something- something about witnesses.”

Martin frowns. “Why would the Distortion do that?”

“Why does the Distortion do anything?” Tim says.

“We could ask,” Jon says as they walk out of the hallway and into the waiting room.

Sasha scoffs and hands the camera back to Tim. “Jon, I know you’ve never really understood this, but some people actually need to sleep. And considering we just fell down a hole and nearly died, I broke my arm, and you just told us my doctor wanted to kill us, I need a bit of a break before we go into the next life-threatening situation.”

“Seconded,” Tim says. “Not really in the mood for Distortion bullshit right now.” He looks at the camera and decides to keep it recording after a moment of deliberation. “Not anymore than we’ve already had, anyway.”

Martin smiles weakly. “I’m- I’m a little tired.” He taps his injured hand, still wrapped in his rather obviously bloodied shirt. “And I’d like to deal with this somewhere that’s not here.”

Jon hesitates. They can’t rush into the Distortion’s corridors now — how would they even find it? — but they’re so close to something now. Granted, Jon has been feeling that for a while, but he’s become much more certain. The fact that they’ve found something tangible about the Architect, the fact that some of the Entities consider them enough of a threat to actively go after them… They’re close. They’re in danger.

But they always have been. They’ve always been in danger. Elias has always been the one that killed Gertrude, even when his employees didn’t know it. The journalists before them all died in terrible ways, even though there’s no way they knew as much as Jon and his friends do now. There have always been superhumans after them, from the Flesh Hive to the NotThem to the Ringleader. Shroud wanted Jon dead even before Jon knew anything about the Architect, anything about the equilibrium the Entities are trying to maintain.

And looking at Sasha with her arm and Tim with dark rings like bruises under his eyes and Martin nervous and tired but trying so hard to keep it hidden… Their investigations can wait.

“Yes, we’ll- we can wait until tomorrow,” Jon decides. “There’s no point in searching for the Distortion tonight. I think it would do us all some good to get some rest.”

“Don’t have to say that twice,” Tim mumbles as he limps toward the exit.

Sasha catches the worry on both Jon and Martin’s faces. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get into trouble.” She gives them a reassuring smile as she walks away to follow Tim.

They’ll be alright. Tim has the camera, and if that was enough to stop Haan from killing them in the most opportune moment possible, they should be fine catching a cab home. Besides, as Jon already concluded, they’ve always been in danger. They’ve always been targets. It’s just that it’s now that Jon has been able to read someone’s mind to fully realize that.

Which, of course, is its own set of problems.

But that can wait until tomorrow. For now, Jon is tired and sore and the residual fear from a thousand different things is weighing on him. He can afford to rest for a few hours.

He doesn’t want to do that. Well, more accurately, he doesn’t want to go back and sit in his apartment alone and not be able to sleep because whatever is in his head won’t let him. And the fact that he experienced someone else’s death down in the Below and he just read Haan’s mind… Whatever it is, it’s getting stronger. It’s… unsettling, to say the least.

Jon doesn’t want to be alone. And he doubts Martin does either. Before, Jon would have hesitated to ask Martin to stay with him, but he figures that any pause is unwarranted after their kiss on the rooftop. They’re together now, and while Jon may not understand all the things that means, he knows that they can rely on each other. They can trust each other. They can help each other.

Still, that doesn’t completely rid Jon of his awkwardness when he speaks. “I- I, uh, would you mind… staying with me tonight? I- I can help with your hand, it’s just that I don’t… I don’t want to be alone.”

Martin smiles, and for the first time that long, long day, Jon feels relieved and content and happy. Things are going to be alright. They’re going to be alright. They have to have time to explore this new relationship, to experience everything that comes of it. Jon isn’t going to die so soon after realizing that he’s fallen in love. He can’t. He won’t.

Jon and Martin and Tim and Sasha are all going to make it through this. They have to. Jon with his knowledge and persistence, Tim with his fire and determination, Sasha with her bravery and commitment, Martin with his courage and cleverness and optimism and hope and care and passion. They’re going to survive this.

For what seems like the first time in his life, Jon truly and completely believes that as Martin takes his hand and says “I don’t mind at all.” 


	32. Chapter 32

When Martin, Jon, Tim, and Sasha reconvene at the _Times_ office the next morning, all of them are doing at least a little bit better. Sasha’s arm is still broken and Tim is still walking with a limp and Jon is still tense and Martin’s hand still hurts like hell, but they’ve at least gotten some rest.

Martin also knows for a fact that Jon actually slept for what was probably the first time in several days. They’d had to take a while to stitch up Martin’s hand first, and a while longer to find another spare pair of glasses for Jon. Then they had talked for a while. Not really about anything in particular, just a normal conversation. They’d avoided talking about anything that had happened earlier that day, but other than that, they’d just talked. Like normal people. Like a normal _couple_. And then Jon had nodded off in his chair and Martin had carried him to bed (because Jon might not sleep often, but when he does, he sleeps heavily) and fallen asleep himself. They’d been late for work in the morning, but that hardly mattered.

What was Elias going to do, fire them?

When Jon and Martin arrive in the morning, Tim and Sasha are already there, both looking at Sasha’s computer, seeming frustrated. Neither of them appear to notice Jon and Martin coming in.

“Can’t you hack into the Internet or something?” Tim says, leaning over Sasha’s shoulder.

“I can’t hack into anything if the information doesn’t exist.” Sasha frowns and types something.

“He doesn’t have, I don’t know, a Facebook page or something?”

“He’s been missing for twelve years and we found what was probably his skeleton stuffed behind an old computer, so I wouldn’t bet on it.”

“Have you two found anything?” Jon says as he and Martin walk up to the table.

Both Sasha and Tim jolt in surprise. “Shit, maybe warn us next time?” Tim mutters.

“Sorry,” Martin says, more out of habit than anything else.

Sasha doesn’t take her eyes off the computer when she speaks. “Don’t worry about it. We’ve… maybe found something? It’s hard to tell.”

Even after all they’ve learned, Jon still perks up at the mention that there might be something new. “Hard to tell?” he echoes.

Sasha sighs, finally looking up. “Sergey Ushanka. The name on the computer. It seems like someone tried really hard to erase him.”

Jon and Martin cross over to the other side of the table, but it’s a bit hard to see with both Tim and Sasha already hunched over the laptop. “Did they scrub his records or something?” Martin asks.

Sasha nods. “Completely. There’s basically nothing left. The most I’ve found is a newspaper article from 2006 about how Sergey Ushanka, renowned programmer, was listed as missing sometime in March. Other than that, nothing. No birth records, no death certificate, no family, no phone number, no residence, no job… It’s almost like he never existed, except for the one newspaper and the skeleton down in that room.”

“He couldn’t- I didn’t get a name when I… did whatever I did, but I think that body must have been his. He must have existed,” Jon says. “Someone just tried very hard to make it look like he didn’t.”

“Yeah, it’s all fascinating and suspicious and everything, but you’re all forgetting the fact that this leads absolutely nowhere,” Tim says. “If we can’t find anything about him, it’s a bit difficult to actually research him.”

“What about our files?” Martin asks. “Surely- surely we have something we can use.”

Jon shakes his head. “Gertrude couldn’t have known about Sergey Ushanka or Project Architect. She would have mentioned those in the notes.”

“Yeah, Project Architect is a dead end too. The only thing I could find on that was some program to get kids interested in architecture,” Sasha says.

“So I guess it’s another dead end.” Tim flashes a forced, tight-lipped smile. “Fantastic. Distortion visit and our likely deaths it is.”

“No, there must be something…” Jon sighs, stepping back from the computer. “This has to mean something.”

Martin feels that too. But if there isn’t anything about Sergey Ushanka or Project Architect, what is there to find? This can’t have been for nothing. They nearly died down in the Underground, down in the Below. Something _happened_ to Jon down here, something that has to do with whatever new powers he’s developing. Tim and Sasha both got hurt. There has to be something, _something_ they can actually find, something concrete. There has to be a reason they almost died to falling, to suffocation, to the earth, to…

“Fireball,” Martin says aloud.

Tim turns around in his chair, lifting an eyebrow. “What about her?”

“How did she have powers? We were in… wherever we were, I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It was part of the Buried, and she’s Desolation,” Martin says. “She shouldn’t have had her powers.”

“Right, that’s…” Jon frowns, pushing up his glasses. “Martin, your powers were gone, and my- my powers were gone. She shouldn’t have been able to… melt like she was.”

“But you did have your powers,” Sasha points out. “You… did whatever the hell that was with the dead guy.”

Jon laughs drily. “That wasn’t- that wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience. It was… extremely taxing, to say the least. And I couldn’t _know_ things like I normally can. I couldn’t figure out which way to go.”

Martin nods. “I could feel a little bit, but I doubt I’d have been able to do much more if I wanted to. Fireball didn’t even seem like she was trying.”

“She is a lot stronger than either of you,” Sasha points out.

“But why would she be in the Buried in the first place if it saps her power? If she escaped the Tunnels or- or whatever happened, why wouldn’t she go somewhere else?” Martin says. “The lift was right there; she could have left.”

“So she… wanted to be there? She wanted to be in the Buried?” Tim says.

“No,” Jon says. “She wouldn’t. Maybe… maybe we weren’t in the Buried at all.”

Tim snorts. “So the giant cave thing really far under the ground is _not_ part of the Entity that deals specifically and exclusively with those things? What is it part of, then? Desolation? Slaughter? Vast?”

Jon shakes his head. “I don’t- I don’t think it was part of anything. I don’t think _any_ place is part of anything. I thought it might be the Buried at the time because it was the only explanation I could come up with for what was going on, but I think I was wrong.”

“Wow, Jon admitting he was wrong? The world must be ending,” Tim says.

Sasha muffles a laugh as Jon glares. “Yes, I was wrong,” Jon says. “It wasn’t the Buried. I think the Buried built it, maybe, but building doesn’t mean anything.”

“But why?” Sasha closes her laptop. “Why would the Buried build something so sophisticated that it didn’t even want?”

“No, it…” Jon trails off with a sigh. “I don’t think it was a matter of _want_. It was a matter of _purpose_. Of fulfilling the needs of something else.”

Martin tries to understand what Jon is saying, but he doesn’t get it at all. “What does- what?”

“Haan was… he didn’t want to be a doctor. He only did it because something told him to. Because it was his purpose.” Jon pauses a moment, gathering his thoughts. “All of the Entities have a hand in something. Peter Lukas is the mayor, Elias runs the paper, Simon Fairchild owned a power plant, Shroud has a cult… They’re all working to maintain the equilibrium, keeping the superhumans here to make Scion City, but they’re working toward something _else_ as well.”

“And what is that purpose?” Sasha asks.

A look of frustration passes over Jon’s face. “I don’t know. I can’t- We don’t have enough information yet. I think it has something to do with the Architect, it has to, but I don’t…” He trails off with an irritated groan.

“That would make sense,” Martin says. “With what we found on the computer…”

“Yeah, but what does any of it mean?” Tim sounds just as frustrated as Jon. “The computer’s dead, Sergey Ushanka’s dead, Project Architect is a dead end, and there’s no way in hell we’re going anywhere near those tunnels again.”

He’s right. Martin doubts even Jon would want to go back down there. And if they can’t get back down there…

“The Distortion would be a good lead,” Martin says. “But I don’t- I have no idea how we would find them.”

The look on the others’ faces makes it clear that they don’t either. “I suppose we’re just going to have to wait,” Jon says.

“You don’t have any weird supernatural insights?” Sasha asks, the playful teasing overriding her disappointment.

Jon’s expression doesn’t change, but his voice is just a bit heavier. “Not at the moment, no.” He sighs. “It’s not particularly reliable. If I’m going to have something inside my head, I would prefer that it actually worked.”

Tim stands, stretching his arms above his head. “Well, this was enlightening.”

Sasha picks up her laptop with her good arm as she gets to her feet. “I’ll work on locating somewhere we can find the Distortion. They’ll be less likely to kill us than Elias, if nothing else.”

That seems to be the signal for the four of them to disperse. Tim wanders around the office, gathering files for some new research now that what he was doing led to a dead end. Sasha spends a while making calls for the article she has to publish that day to make it look like the journalists are actually doing their jobs. Jon goes to his office, as per usual, but he keeps the door open as he works, sitting at his desk and reading through some old files. After twenty or so minutes of filling his time with random and relatively pointless tasks, Martin decides to join him.

Jon doesn’t look up from his papers, mumbling quietly to himself and holding one hand to his temple. He still doesn’t look up when Martin closes the door. Martin watches him for a moment before it becomes clear that Jon definitely doesn’t realize that he’s in there.

“How are you doing?” Martin asks, pulling out the chair in front of Jon’s desk and sitting down.

Jon sighs long and heavy, rubbing his face under his glasses. “I don’t… I’m not sure. We were _so close_ to something and- and now…”

“We’re still close,” Martin says. “We’re going to get there. We just- we just have to be careful.”

After a short beat of tired sobriety, a playful smile begins to spread across Jon’s face. “Says the superhero.”

“I’ve been careful!” Martin pauses “Sort of. Kind of? Relatively.”

“Well, I suppose with what the rest of us have been doing, it would be difficult to be _less_ careful.”

They smile at each other. Martin reaches across the desk and places his hand on top of Jon’s. Jon leans his head on his free hand, his smile fond and warm and peaceful.

Jon doesn’t speak, but Martin knows what he’s saying. They’re both tired and bruised and frustrated and scared, but they can still scrape happiness from that. Somehow, everything that’s happened has pulled strings, brought them closer, brought them together. All of it. All the hardships, all the struggles, all the desperate fights and grievous injuries and near-death experiences, it’s all brought them together, to where they are now.

They aren’t at the end. Not yet. They still have work to do, secrets to reveal, things to learn. They still have to keep fighting to survive. But they’re going to make it. They’re going to make it, and it’s going to have been worth it.

They sit like that a moment longer before Jon moves, turning over Martin’s hand to look at it. “It seems to be holding up well enough.”

Martin hadn’t even realized he’d reached out with his injured hand. “Yeah,” he says with a small shrug. “I heal fast. Still kind of- ow-” Martin hisses when Jon accidentally puts a little too much pressure on the wound and gives him a quick apology. “No, it’s fine. Still hurts a bit, but it should probably- probably be healed by tomorrow.”

“That’s good.” Jon gently adjusts the bandage where it’s become slightly crooked before leaning back and looking up at the ceiling. “I wonder- I wonder if I have quicker healing too.”

“You’re… I noticed that you started calling… whatever it is powers when we were out there.”

Jon nods. “No use denying it now. I don’t- I don’t much care for them, but I do have powers. We need to factor that in when we plan.”

“We don’t have to. Not if you don’t want to use them,” Martin says, trying to keep his voice as gentle as it is firm.

“No, it’s- it’s fine.” Jon sighs. “I’m- I’m fine.”

Jon’s words aren’t very convincing, but Martin isn’t quite sure how to help. “You’re still you, Jon,” he says after a long pause. “Whatever- whatever powers you’re developing, you’re still you.”

Jon says nothing, looking back down at the table. Eventually, he sighs, making eye contact again. “I… I guess you’re right. You’re still the same person, after all, so maybe it will be the same for me. I’ve probably been influenced by the Eye for most of my life, so maybe… maybe I won’t change. I won’t become something I’m not.”

While Martin is thinking about how he can respond, the door to Jon’s office is thrown open and both Tim and Sasha step in. “The Hellhound’s been sighted,” Tim says, much more calmly than the situation warrants.

Martin’s mind blanks as he gets up out of his chair. “The- what?”

Sasha seems a bit less calm than Tim is, but she clearly doesn’t have the panic currently buzzing in Martin’s head. “The Hellhound showed up near the entrance to the Tunnels. Police have been trying to track it, but-”

Martin doesn’t hear the rest of what Sasha says. He pushes past her and Tim and runs back to his office, ducking under his desk to take out the bag with his suit. He’s gotten very good at getting it on as fast as possible, but it still takes too long for him to get ready. Martin isn’t about to risk anyone else getting hurt because he didn’t get somewhere to help fast enough.

Martin stumbles out of his office a minute and a half later, pulling on his mask. Sasha is pacing, talking to someone — probably the police — on her phone. Tim is getting a camera ready. They’re both probably planning on going down near the scene, as is the usual protocol, but neither of them would risk getting too close. The Hellhound is not something to trifled with, and Tim and Sasha are both only human, and injured on top of it. They’ve both had their moments, but Martin knows they aren’t quite _that_ reckless.

Jon, on the other hand…

Jon is waiting outside the door. “Take me with you,” he says.

Martin’s first instinct is to say no. He can’t let Jon come with him; there’s too much of a chance he’ll get hurt.

“I can help. You don’t have to do this alone.” Jon’s voice is hard and determined, his eyes steely.

He’s right. Martin doesn’t have the first idea how to fight the Hellhound. It’s not a total enigma, but it’s supposed to have been dead and the Dark doesn’t have easily accessible weaknesses like some of the other Entities. Martin needs help. He doesn’t know if he can do this alone. Jon can help him, so long as Martin can keep him safe.

“Okay,” Martin says, then clears his throat to make his voice more even. “Okay. You just- I don’t want you getting hurt, Jon.”

As they begin to walk toward the lift, heading out into danger once again, Jon takes hold of Martin’s hand. “I won’t. We can keep each other safe. That’s what we do.”

Martin inhales, taking comfort in Jon’s touch, in his words, in the calm before the storm. “That’s what we do.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know, for someone who is not a huge fan of the dark in general, I'm including a lot of the Dark.


	33. Chapter 33

It’s easy enough to find the Hellhound. The Dark is almost invisible during the night, but the vast swathes of shadows its creatures leave behind are easy to see during the day. It’s slowly drifting down the street, showing where the Hellhound is going without revealing exactly where it is. Jon can see the darkness from several streets away, stretching up into the sky, blotting out all color and light. The darkness writhes as if it’s a living thing, similar to the strands that Shroud had used as weapons. Too similar. Jon shudders, closing his eyes to try and stop the memories before they come.

“You alright?” Martin asks, shifting the arm he’s using to hold Jon’s legs.

Jon wraps his arms just a bit tighter around Martin’s neck, looking away from the Hellhound and away from the ground. “Fine.”

“We’re almost there,” Martin says, though Jon isn’t sure if that makes things better or worse.

It takes what feels like too long (yet also not long enough) to reach the Hellhound. Martin stops at the edge of the building, looking down at the coiled darkness below. He moves his free hand, pulling through webs Jon can’t see through the shadows. Then they descend, and Jon can’t see anything at all. Almost all the sounds of the city go utterly silent, leaving only the sound of Jon and Martin breathing.

“Here’s the ground,” Martin says after several seconds of climbing down. His voice is just a bit too quiet.

He sets Jon back onto his feet. It feels strange to be standing again, like his feet aren’t quite where they’re supposed to be. Though in the Hellhound’s field of pure darkness, nothing feels quite right. Jon keeps close to Martin, gripping his lighter tightly.

It’s too dark. It’s too dark. He’s going to die, he can’t breathe, it’s too much, he needs to get out right now-

Jon inhales slowly, shutting his eyes even though it’s so dark it doesn’t matter if he has them open or not. “Do you- do you know where the Hellhound is?”

“No, I- I can’t…” Martin trails off, reaching out to grab Jon’s hand. “It’s everywhere.”

And then, all at once, Jon feels what Martin is feeling. The sensation that _something_ is behind him, in front of him, surrounding him on all sides. Something dangerous, something _hungry_. Something that is going to kill him.

Jon takes the lighter out of his pocket and flicks it on. The flame doesn’t illuminate much, but it’s enough. It’s enough to see that the Hellhound isn’t right next to them, that the danger isn’t quite so immediate.

Martin breathes an audible sigh of relief. “Okay,” he says. “Okay.”

Jon moves the lighter around. He can see the wall of the building Martin climbed down, the concrete of the ground, the darkness around them that seems empty but really isn’t. The Hellhound is here somewhere. It’s just a question of finding it.

Jon lets go of Martin’s hand, ignoring the fear that begins to rise with the tether gone. “Stay close,” he says, starting to walk forward.

Martin scoffs. “Jon, I’m the one with fully developed superpowers that doesn’t need to see to navigate.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jon says, breath hitching when he thinks he catches the shadows shifting.

“Hm,” Martin says, not sounding convinced but not wanting to argue in the current circumstances.

Jon takes a moment to figure out where they are. The darkness has been moving with the Hellhound, traveling where it goes. The Hellhound itself should be closer to the front, which should be…

Jon has no idea where they are. He picks a direction and starts walking. If they can find the Hellhound before it finds them, they might catch it off guard. They might have a chance against it.

A few seconds later, it becomes clear that they’re not going to catch it off guard. Something snarls, sounding close and far away at the same time. Jon spins in a slow circle, trying to see. There’s nothing. Martin has his mask on, but the optic units are as wide as they can go and his breathing is uneven, verging on panic. It’s close. It has to be close. So where the hell is it?

“There,” Martin whispers, pointing into the darkness. “I can feel it for real.”

Jon stops walking. “What- what is it doing?” he whispers back as if the Hellhound can’t see them, as if it’s as blind as they are.

“I don’t- It’s hard to tell. I think it’s just… No, it’s moving.”

And then Jon can see _something_. Some hulking, slinking shape. Jon knows what the Hellhound looks like; he saw it in Shroud’s head, but he can’t remember, and he can’t see it well enough now. He doesn’t know enough to tell how many massive clawed limbs (paws? Hands?) it has, but he can tell it’s a lot of them. There’s a suggestion of a head, of sharp teeth, but it’s too hard to tell.

And then the Hellhound fades back into the darkness, becoming invisible once more.

“Shit,” Jon mutters.

“Well, it’s- it’s not attacking us,” Martin says, voice laced with nervousness, turning slowly to follow the Hellhound’s movements.

Jon starts to say something about how that doesn’t make sense. But it does make sense. The fire. It can’t come near the fire.

Jon grabs Martin’s arm and pulls him closer, not wanting to risk him being far enough out of the lighter’s range that the Hellhound could attack. “The fire,” he says, gesturing with the lighter.

Slowly, Martin nods. “Okay. We just- we need to…” He sighs. “We have to stop it somehow. It- it- We can’t let it hurt anyone else.”

Jon should know how to do that. Out of all the goddamned things he can know, there’s no reason he shouldn’t be able to do this. They have to stop the Hellhound. Either it’s going to melt back into hiding or it’s going to go on a rampage. Neither of those are good options. They need to stop it. If Jon’s powers would just _work_ -

“Get down!” Martin shouts, tackling Jon to the ground, knocking the lighter out of his hand.

Jon swears sharply as something heavy passes over them, hitting the ground with a loud metallic crash only a short distance away. The Hellhound snarls. Everything is dark. Claws click against concrete. Martin curls around Jon protectively, as if that will do anything against the Hellhound’s teeth and claws and shadows.

Jon needs to think. He needs to _think_. They have to be able to do _something_. But there’s nothing. No one knows much about the Hellhound. No one has to. It’s supposed to be dead, killed by Shroud years ago. Apparently no one’s bothered to research the damn thing. Granted, research would probably end with getting mauled to death, but still. That knowledge should exist somewhere.

It doesn’t. Goddammit, it doesn’t. Jon can’t reach it. No one knows about the Hellhound’s weakness, about how to fight the thing beyond fire or strobe lights or running away.

And then Jon comes to a realization. No one else may know that information, but he does know of some _thing_ that does.

He isn’t sure this will work, isn’t sure that the Hellhound even _has_ a mind for him to read. But he has to try. He closes his eyes and _pushes_.

The Hellhound’s mind is… Haan’s was fragmented, barely translatable, not quite human. The Hellhound’s is something else entirely.

The thoughts are brief slashes, vague concepts and bloody images rather than anything in words.

Tearing. Ripping through flesh and bone and blood and everything in between, teeth snapping, claws slashing.

Hiding. Slinking through gutters, crawling down in the sewer systems, hissing at the Buried while traveling through the Underground. The price it must pay for now, a pretend betrayal by the Dark that to the rest of the city is not the Dark.

And then, before, far, far before, existence. Creating something out of nothing, _being_ where it had not been before. Alive, as much as something like the Hellhound can be. The Architect watches its new creation and instructs it to become part of the Dark, tear who it wants, consume what it needs. Destroy and terrorize, for that is all the Hellhound is.

And then the almost-now, so recent it’s a fresh memory more distinct than the rest. A thing that looks to the Hellhound’s altered senses like a mass of eyes, writhing and contorting and shaped vaguely into a human. The Hellhound could kill the Watcher — probably should — but instead, it listens. It allows the Watcher to give it memories and images and words that aren’t its own.

_Attack the place of the Eye. Kill those unmarked by the Architect and the anomaly, the one who has rejected the Web. Leave those of the Eye alive. The Watcher’s pupil has purpose yet._

Jon’s concentration shatters as pain lances through his head. He snaps back to the present, to his own mind, to the dark. Jon draws his knees up, clutching his head, moaning. The Hellhound keens, the sound almost human.

It seems that Jon hurt the Hellhound by pushing into its mind, but he doesn’t know if he can go that far again and he still doesn’t know how to hurt the damn thing.

Except he does. Fire. He needs the lighter.

“Lighter,” Jon says aloud, voice hoarse and rasping.

“The Hellhound’s right on top of it,” Martin responds. “I need to get it to- shit!”

Martin wraps tighter around Jon, pulling out the edges of his cloak to cover him completely. The feeling of the Hellhound moves, and though Jon can’t tell where it is, he can tell that it’s moving fast. Martin screams, suddenly wrenched sharply to the side and away from Jon, an awful tearing sound cutting through the otherwise near silence of the Hellhound’s domain. Jon feels something hot and wet and liquid splatter across him.

“Martin!” Jon shouts, the sound echoing and bouncing and not loud enough in this place to fully convey the panic he’s feeling.

“I’m- I’m okay,” Martin whimpers from a few feet away, too far in this utter darkness. “I’ll… be fine.”

The Hellhound makes a noise somewhere between a shriek and a laugh.

“Lighter,” Martin calls, and Jon feels something small hit him in the torso.

Jon takes the lighter in his hands and turns it on. The Hellhound hisses, temporarily held at bay by the light. Martin waves a hand to vanish the web he used to pull the lighter to Jon, shaking slightly, breathing heavily. Jon stands and walks over to him, helping him to his feet. Martin’s cloak is shredded and he has a few large slashes across his back, marks of the Hellhound’s claws. The wounds are shallow, as far as Jon can tell, and they’re not bleeding heavily enough to be dangerous yet, but Jon can’t help the feelings of fear and anger that rise in him in equal measure.

“I’ll be fine,” Martin says again, sounding slightly steadier this time. “I’ve had worse.”

“What’s the- Do you have a plan?”

“Not to let it claw me again. I don’t- I don’t know how to hurt it. I don’t know how to fight it.” Martin grabs Jon’s arm and pulls him to the side as another heavy object is thrown at them, barely missing.

“If we can lure it somewhere else… I don’t know. We need a strobe, or- or- Would the police cars work?”

“No, I can’t- We have to- Down!” Martin pulls Jon into a crouch as what looks like a manhole cover rockets over their heads. “There has to be…” Martin trails off, then grabs the arm Jon is holding the lighter with. “Fire.”

“It isn’t enough, it won’t-”

Martin cuts Jon off with a shake of his head. “My webs burn. We can light them on fire.”

To demonstrate, he draws a short, thin web and holds it in his hand, dangling one end over the flame. The web ignites almost immediately, producing a line of fire in the air for a few seconds before it disintegrates. Jon smiles, relieved that they finally have some way to fight back.

“Can you distract it?” Martin says, his hands beginning to move.

Jon tightens his grip on the lighter. “Yes.”

Martin disappears into the darkness. The Hellhound might be able to see in the dark, but Martin is hard enough to see that it might buy him a couple seconds. And hopefully Jon can buy him more.

The Hellhound screams, its claws scraping against the ground as it runs after Martin. The sound allows Jon to approximate where it is, and that’s enough to push into its mind again.

Jon isn’t looking for anything. There’s not much else he needs to find. He just _pushes_. Images of blood and gore and hunger flash rapidly through his mind, memories of all the carnage the Hellhound has wrought. The Hellhound hisses, growling and snapping, stopping in its tracks. The pain in Jon’s head rises again, but he ignores it. He has to.

Jon digs into the Hellhound’s mind for what feels like forever before Martin drops back down next to him, a line of web easily as thick as his arm held in his hand and trailing off into the darkness. He’s breathing heavily, his wounds still bleeding, but he’s back.

“Ready,” Martin says.

Jon doesn’t hesitate. He touches the lighter’s flame to the web. Martin drops it as the entire thing ignites almost entirely simultaneously. Martin has woven a dome of web maybe fifteen feet in diameter, attached to the street and buildings and everything else in the vicinity. The strands are twisted together into thick ropes of web, enough to burn for a decent amount of time. The fire casts an orange glow on everything inside the dome: Jon and Martin, the asphalt of the street, the gaping hole the manhole cover the Hellhound threw must have been over.

All that, and the Hellhound.

It’s still surrounding itself with a small amount of darkness, enough to obscure the majority of its form, but the light is clearly hurting it. It’s keening again, a high, pained sound that it couples with a jagged growl. The darkness around it undulates and twitches as the Hellhound convulses. It worked. They’ve managed to stop it.

Martin laughs with relief. “I think we-”

His words are cut off when he has to dive to the side as the Hellhound lunges at him. It moves almost too fast for Jon to see; one second it’s there and one second it’s not. Jon whirls around toward Martin, who’s back on his feet, clutching the fresh slash across his bicep. The Hellhound stands behind him, crouched and ready to leap, growling low and angry. Then it leaps again, streaking past Martin and clawing at him again. Martin cries out and clutches the fresh cut along his thigh.

The Hellhound isn’t trying to kill him. It’s toying with him. Trying to hurt him, to cause as much pain as it can possibly inflict.

Jon didn’t even know he had the capacity for the anger that begins to boil inside him. He knows Martin’s fights happen like this; he watched the recording of his fight with the Ringleader, saw his injuries after Fireball, hurt Martin himself while possessed by Shroud. But to see it firsthand, to be standing right there, to be able to do something to help… He’s angrier than he ever has been in his life. This _thing_ is hurting Martin, and Jon is _not_ about to let that happen.

Jon doesn’t even take the time to think before he moves. He steps forward to stand between Martin and the Hellhound, daring it to try and go through him. Martin protests, trying to pull Jon back, but Jon stands firm. He stares down the Hellhound, arms spread out protectively.

“ _Don’t fucking touch him_ ,” he growls, teeth bared in a furious snarl.

The Hellhound snarls back, the fury of a wounded and cornered animal, but it doesn’t attack again. It can’t. To do that, it would have to go through Jon, and it can’t hurt him. It’s close enough to a dog, after all, and any good dog must follow its commands. It can’t hurt Jon, and there’s no way in hell Jon is going to let it through him to hurt Martin.

They both stand there for a moment, staring each other down. The Hellhound breaks first. The light from the flames has clearly been hurting it, and it apparently doesn’t want to tolerate that any longer. It slinks away, Jon following its every step to always stay between it and Martin. It drops down through the manhole, disappearing into the sewers. Both Jon and Martin stand frozen, watching where it had been before it vanished. They can’t follow it. Even if Martin weren’t hurt, following something like that into the sewers would practically be suicide.

As the dome of flaming webs disintegrates, so does the darkness. Gradually, the daylight filters back in. Jon puts the lighter back into his pocket, staring up at the sun. He’s safe. They’re safe. The dark is gone.

Jon turns around to face Martin. “Well, that went-”

Martin interrupts him by taking off his mask and pulling Jon into a kiss. Jon melts into him as Martin brings up his free hand and cups the back of Jon’s neck, holding him close. After only a moment, Martin pulls his lips away, moving instead to wrap Jon in a tight hug. Jon puts his arms around Martin too, careful not to touch the gashes on his back.

“Why did you _do_ that?” Martin murmurs.

“I figured I should be the one protecting you for a change.”

Martin laughs, resting his head against Jon’s shoulder and staying there for a moment. “Thank you,” he says before pulling away. “But please don’t do anything like that ever again.”

Jon smiles at him. “You’re going to have to try harder than that to convince me not to run directly into danger.”

Martin smiles back. He looks just as tired as he is relieved. He doesn’t say anything else. Jon doubts he has anything to say. They’ve just narrowly avoided death, after all.

Or at least, Martin has.

Elias told the Hellhound not to kill Jon. Elias told the Hellhound to kill Tim and Sasha and _Martin_. Jon feels a dull form of that rage return, but it’s quickly swallowed by uneasy fear. The Hellhound knows who Martin is. Elias told it before explicitly telling it to kill Jon’s friends but to leave Jon alive.

The Hellhound may have retreated for now, but it will be back. Even worse, Jon can’t tell the others about this. Not with Elias’s near-omniscience. If Elias knows that Jon knows, he’ll call off the Hellhound and try something else, something that Jon won’t be able to predict. He’s going to have to find some way to stop Elias if he wants to keep the others safe.

But that can wait, at least for now. The Hellhound is injured and beaten, unlikely to attempt another attack today. Jon doubts this was even supposed to be an attack, not here. Elias told it to go to the office; it probably just got spotted while it was on the way there. They’ll be safe until the day is over, and the next two days will be the weekend, when they’ll be safe. As long as it doesn’t know Jon knows about the attack, the Hellhound will come on Monday, when the four of them are back in the office again.

They’ll be safe until then. Plenty of time for Jon to think of something.

He has to. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jon is a PG-13 movie: allowed to say one (1) fuck.
> 
> Also: look at cryptidkoi on Instagram for some Very Very Good art of chapter 28! Y'all should go like and comment and follow and whatever else you can do on Instagram.


	34. Chapter 34

Martin wakes up very early Sunday morning to the sound of his phone buzzing. It takes him a minute to figure out what it is before he dimly grabs for it, fumbling to click the answer button.

“Hello?” he mutters groggily.

Sasha’s voice comes through the phone, far too loud for this early in the morning. “Hey, Martin. You awake?”

Martin sits up, wincing when the still-painful gashes on his back stretch. “Am now.”

“Great! We’ve got a job, and I think we might be needing our team superhero.”

Martin only responds with a groan that’s close enough to “Oh, hell.”

“Yeah. At least the Distortion’s marginally less likely to maul you than the Hellhound.”

“Distor- Can’t this wait until tomorrow?” Martin knows it can’t, but it also can’t hurt to ask.

“Well, that’s what Tim suggested too, but Jon’s really insistent that we go today now that we’ve located a definite entrance point. Probably not a bad idea though, since they might move stuff around if we wait.”

Martin sighs. “Fine. I’ll be- Hold on, where are we- where are we even meeting?”

Sasha starts to talk, but her voice fades out and is replaced by Tim’s. “Hey, funny story about that, we’re actually kind of just standing outside your building.”

Martin starts to look for suitable clothes, holding his phone between his shoulder and his ear. “You’re- what?”

“Yeah, we’re waiting out here. It’s kind of cold.”

“Why are- why are you outside my building?” Martin asks incredulously.

“You’re the closest to where we’re going anyway. And Jon’s prattling on about how we can’t go into the office or we’ll get paid too much or something.” Martin can practically hear Tim rolling his eyes as he says the last few words. “I- okay, fine, I’ll just turn it on speaker.”

“We’ll- we’ll be going too far away if we meet back at the office,” Jon says, his voice slightly quiet and tinny through the phone. “Sasha found a point we can access the corridors not too far from here. If we don’t-”

Tim interrupts. “If we don’t go now we won’t get the opportunity to talk to our favorite knife hand friends, which we all know would be a tragedy.”

“We need to go talk to them-”

Jon’s words are cut off by Sasha’s voice, probably taking the phone off speaker. “Can you just get down here in a couple minutes?”

Martin nods, momentarily forgetting she can’t see him. “Uh, yeah.”

“Great. See you in a few.” The phone beeps as Sasha hangs up.

Martin spends a couple minutes getting ready. If they’re going to show up at his flat this early in the morning, Martin is okay with making his friends wait outside in the cold for a little bit. Besides, he has to take a moment to decide if this is a job for Martin or a job for the Weaver. In the end, he decides the suit isn’t worth it. The Distortion already knows who he is; no point in lying to them now.

When Martin exits his building and walks out into the cold morning, it’s clear that the others have been waiting impatiently. “Finally,” Tim says, gesturing with the camera he’s holding in his hands. “Thought you’d fallen down the stairs and died or something.”

Jon looks worried, his hands stuffed in his pockets as he rocks slightly on his feet. “We should- we should probably start heading toward the entrance. I don’t know how long they’ll leave it open.” He looks up at Martin, and his expression changes to concern. “As long as- as you’re doing alright. After the Hellhound, I mean.”

Martin shrugs, wincing when that stretches the cuts across his back. “I’ve been worse. I’ll be fine.”

Sasha nods. “Good. The entrance shouldn’t be too far away.”

She’s not wrong. It’s still a bit too far away for Martin’s liking, since he really just wants to go back to sleep, but it’s not that bad of a walk. Especially because Jon is lagging behind the other two, walking next to Martin. Jon’s been with Martin a lot since the Hellhound attack. At first it was to help stitch Martin’s wounds, which Martin isn’t sure he did right and is very sure he didn’t do efficiently, but it was a good gesture, especially since trying to go to the hospital would probably get him killed. Then it was just to be together, to be close, to comfort each other after their mutual experience in the Hellhound’s dark domain.

Martin still hasn’t fully processed the fact that Jon saved him like that. Martin is supposed to be the brave one, the strong one, the one putting himself on the line. Instead, Jon stood in front of a monster to protect Martin. Martin isn’t sure why it worked, but it did. Jon has been saving Martin the whole time, providing him an anchor even when Martin was at his lowest — after Fireball, after Puppeteer, after everything in between and before and after. But this time, Jon saved Martin’s life while risking his own, standing between Martin and certain, terrible death.

Now more than ever, Martin is sure Jon really does love him.

And, of course, Martin really loves Jon. He always has, but now…

Now that Jon has done something so irrevocable, so impulsive, so ridiculously _stupid_ , all to save Martin’s life… Martin has never thought he would ever be that to anyone. He never thought he would be good enough for anyone to consider that. He thought he could try his hardest all his life and it would never be enough, that he would never earn the same love from someone else that he has for them.

But he has. _He has_.

He’s earned that love. And it’s real, it’s something that Martin _knows_ isn’t an act, isn’t a front, isn’t a lie, isn’t anything like that. Martin finally knows that he _has_ been good enough, that he’ll _always_ be good enough, that he’s never been a coward or a hopeless mess or an unloveable idiot like he’d always thought he was deep down.

Martin knows Jon loves him in the same messy, irreversible, intense, wonderful way that Martin has loved Jon for so long. And that makes Martin’s feelings grow even more, the affection and love and happiness.

Even an early morning visit to the Distortion can’t break that giddy feeling Martin now has.

Martin is shaken out of his thoughts by Sasha announcing “We’re here” and gesturing with her good arm.

Ahead of them is a house. The house is nothing special, just a small single story painted a dull tan. There’s a for-sale sign sitting in the lawn, which is a bit unkempt, but based on the battered state of the sign and the peeling paint on the house, no one’s really trying to sell it anymore. Sasha marches confidently up to the front door.

“Should we knock?” Tim asks with a half smile as he approaches behind Sasha.

“This isn’t a Distortion door,” Jon says, leaning past Tim to inspect the door itself. “I think it’s just a normal door.”

Sasha opens the door. “The actual door should be somewhere inside.”

The inside of the house looks much worse than the outside. The wallpaper is curling off the walls and it looks like there’s mold in the ceiling. The carpets are stained and matted, the furniture shredded and covered in cobwebs, the curtains a really ugly shade of green.

“Ugh,” Martin says mostly involuntarily, wrinkling his nose when he picks up the smell of mildew and what seems to be a dead thing rotting somewhere.

“Got that right,” Tim mutters. “You sure this is the right place?”

Sasha nods. “I spent two whole days running every Distortion door location through a program I made from scratch specifically for this purpose until it gave me a center point to all of them. There has to be a door somewhere at all times to keep their hallways stable, so it would have to be in the center of all of them. I’m pretty damn sure this is the right place.”

There’s what looks like a kitchen off to one side, a couple doors that probably lead to bedrooms on another, a bathroom, and what looks like a door to a basement. None of them look like Distortion doors right away, but they won’t know until they check. Jon walks ahead of Sasha and picks one of the bedroom doors, which turns out to not actually be a bedroom door.

Even if this is probably the _least_ dangerous thing Martin has done in the past few months, he can’t help but feel a sinking in his stomach as he stares into the warped corridor beyond the door.

Jon looks back at the others. “Ready?”

No one gives a verbal response. They all just walk forward and, one after the other, step into the Distortion’s hallway. Martin takes the lead, hoping to be able to defend the others if something goes wrong. He hopes he won’t have to. The Distortion’s motives change by the day, but last time Helen stopped by, she saved their lives. Maybe they’re both still in a life saving mood rather than a life taking one.

Martin doesn’t bother to string a guiding web as they walk. The Distortion corridors warp too much for it to matter. If the Distortion’s in a good mood, they’ll probably just let Martin and his friends out. If they aren’t… Martin doesn’t want to think about it. He’s not confident he could fight the Distortion here in their home territory.

Time is weird in the hallways, but Martin thinks they’ve been wandering for about twenty minutes when the Distortion appears. Helen and Michael appear at the end of a corridor, bodies looking even more twisted in the reflections in the mirrors that surround them. They’re both grinning, though whether that’s because they’re happy or because their faces are permanently like that Martin can’t tell.

“Hello, journalists,” Michael says, tilting his head.

“Fancy seeing you here,” Helen says, tilting her head in the opposite direction.

“We came here for answers,” Jon calls, raising his voice to be heard down the hallway.

Michael and Helen laugh, the sound bouncing around the halls. “Oh, we’re sure you did,” Michael says. “You’re nothing if not predictable.”

“Took you long enough.” Helen’s eyes shift to the camera in Tim’s hand. “We’ll be wanting that back.”

“Uh, no thanks, I think I’ll-” Tim yelps in surprise as Helen vanishes from the other end of the corridor. Martin turns and sees her leaning out of a turn in the hallway next to Tim, holding out a hand. “Yeah, yeah, sure, you can have it,” Tim says quickly, placing the camera in her hand.

Martin feels a… something on his shoulder and he turns around with a shout to see Michael standing right there. “Now, there’s no need to be so tense,” Michael says, grin widening as Martin steps back and runs into Jon.

“Cut it out, you two,” Sasha says. “We’re just here to talk. You don’t have to do your weird bullshit with us.”

“Don’t we?” Michael asks.

“No,” Jon answers, voice filled with irritation.

Helen reappears next to Michael, her face turned into a frown. “Fine. But you’re the ones who trespassed in our home.”

Martin scowls. “You tried to kill us with the Flesh Hive.”

Michael laughs, brushing some of his hair back with his long, sharp fingers. “You’re never going to get over that, are you? If we wanted you dead, you would be. I was simply having a little fun.”

Tim crosses his arms. “Yeah, that was definitely not what I would call fun.”

“Enough,” Jon says, not quite snapping but not polite either. “We came here for answers.”

Michael lifts his eyebrows. “Then ask your questions.”

The silence that follows is heavy. Martin looks to the others. They’re all hesitating. Now that they’re here, questions about to be answered… It’s hard to ask them. It’s hard to take that final step. They’re in too deep already, they’ve _always_ been in too deep, but this feels wrong, somehow.

Jon speaks first. “Why help us? What do you gain from this?”

Helen grimaces. “It’s not about _gain_ , Jonathan. It’s just that you and your anomaly of a friend are… interesting to keep around.”

It takes Martin a moment to realize Helen means him. “Anomaly?”

“Something out of place. Not normal. Irregular,” Michael says. “An outlier.”

“You’re keeping us alive because he’s superhuman?” Sasha says.

Both Michael and Helen laugh. “Of course not,” Michael says. “Jonathan is just as superhuman as he is. Your Martin is an anomaly among even us.”

Tim sighs. “Could you just say something that makes sense instead of talking in circles?”

“Did you think that every superhuman in this city is as ignorant as you? That they had to discover everything on their own? That they did not dedicate themselves to the equilibrium they were created to maintain?” Helen leans forward. “You are not a patron of the Architect. You are an outlier.”

“Shroud, he…” Jon looks at the scratched, shifting floor under his feet. “He… thought something similar as well.”

“So… the reason you’ve kept us alive is because Martin isn’t an evil, murdering bastard?” Sasha’s mouth curls with a hint of amusement.

Michael shrugs. “That, yes. And old loyalties are difficult to shake. The Eye did favor me for a while, but, well…” He waves one of his twisted hands.

There’s a short pause, which Martin decides to end by asking a question that’s been gnawing at him for months. “Why me?”

Helen tilts her head. “Why anyone?”

“I- I mean, whoever- _whatever_ gave me these powers must have known that I- that I wouldn’t do what the others do. Why give _me_ powers? Why make _me_ part of the Web?”

“The Architect doesn’t… strictly choose who its powers go to. There are certainly some more inclined to get them then others…” Michael eyes Jon. “But those who change are supposed to understand what their purpose is. You didn’t.”

“And so you became the outlier,” Helen adds. “The stray variable disrupting the balance of the whole.”

“What _is_ the purpose, though?” Tim asks. “Why go through all this trouble? Why kill so many people? Why kill…” He trails off.

“The superhumans are what make Scion City,” Helen says. “And what is the purpose in creating something you cannot control?”

“Every Entity has its purpose,” Michael continues. “All working toward keeping the balance, providing something for the city. The Flesh provides medicine, the Corruption opposes it with its disease. The Spiral builds things barely possible, the Desolation destroys them so they can be built again. The Vast provides the power, the Buried the transportation, the Lonely the politics; all are working toward tearing the city down or building it back up or making things function as they should.”

“There’s no reason to create an industry with the superhumans if there’s no city to build it in,” Helen says. “But if you can build a city and make it great through equilibrium… then you have created something.”

“So that’s what the Architect wants?” Sasha says. “A perfect city?”

Michael shrugs. “In a way. It may have been corrupted from its original purpose, but its goals are still the same. Its influences run deeper in this city than you could ever comprehend. It _is_ the city. It is the forces that have run through this world before the dawn of humanity. It is the thing that harnessed them. It is every patron of the Entities, every industry, every organization, _everything_ in this city. The Architect is not only an architect; it is also its creation.”

Then Jon asks the question that all of them have had from the time they found Gertrude’s notes. “What is the Architect?”

Helen and Michael don’t answer immediately. They both stare, heads tilted, smiles across their faces. A bolt of fear shoots through Martin and he feels for a web, something to draw through to protect himself and his friends if he needs to.

Helen finally breaks the silence. “That is not information we can tell you. That is for you to learn through someone else.”

“Although…” Michael taps his chin with one long, sharp finger, his shark’s grin widening. “I believe you may want to speak to him soon, anyway.”

“Him?” Martin says. “Who-”

Helen holds up a hand. “The Watcher cannot hear you here. Our home is too contorted for even his powers to comprehend through. If you have something you wish to say, Jonathan, I would say it now.”

Jon freezes. “I- you… You’re sure he can’t hear us?”

Michael laughs. “Have we ever lied to you?”

“Jon…” Martin says, failing to keep the heavy worry from his voice.

“Have something to tell us?” Sasha says.

Jon sighs, taking a moment before speaking. “When Martin and I went after the Hellhound, I- I read its mind. Elias told it to attack the office. He told it to kill all of you and leave me alive.”

Tim sums up Martin’s thoughts with two words. “Well, shit.”

“We fought off the Flesh Hive when she broke in. Maybe we can fight the Hellhound.” Sasha doesn’t sound entirely convinced in her own words.

“We have to. If we can’t anticipate an attack, then we have no way to survive it. We have to deal with the Hellhound, and-”

Sasha cuts Jon off. “We have to deal with Elias.”

“How are we supposed to do that?” Tim says. “He can fry our brains just by looking at us. And even if he wants you to keep you alive, Jon, you couldn’t fight your way out of a paper bag.”

“I can… do something,” Jon says. “I’ll figure something out. As long as you two and Martin can fight the Hellhound, then maybe I can…”

Jon keeps talking, but Martin stops listening. Instead, he starts thinking. There has to be some way to stop this. Martin can fight the Hellhound, or he can try, at least, but that still leaves Elias. And if Elias is still there, he’s still a threat. He could call on Shroud, or Haan, or Lukas, or any of the countless unknown superhumans scattered around the city. Or he could just kill them all himself.

No, they need to deal with Elias. They need to find some way to get him out of the picture.

Martin looks around the corridor. At Michael and Helen standing nearby, looking intrigued. At the hallways leading in all directions conceivable and some directions that aren’t. At Tim and Sasha and Jon, all talking, planning, trying to figure things out.

He pulls through a small segment of web, winding it around his fingers, trying to focus. If they’re in the office… Martin knows the territory. They all do. The Hellhound doesn’t. They should be able to fight it off, but that still leaves the problem of Elias. Unless…

Unless.

“Hey,” Martin says, not loud enough to be heard over the others talking. He clears his throat and tries again, louder this time. “Hey!”

The other three stop talking and turn to him. Martin looks at his friends. The people whose lives will be on the line if this fails. Along with Martin’s, of course, but at least he has powers to protect himself. There’s no way to be sure this plan would work, if it would even help. But they have to try. After all of this, after everything they’ve been through, they have to try.

Martin inhales, closes his eyes, exhales, opens them again.

He’s ready.

“I have a plan.” 


	35. Chapter 35

(A letter written by Sasha James, to be delivered to her parents by the Distortion in the case of her death.)

Hey Mum. Hey Dad.

I don’t know what they’re going to tell you about what happened. Probably not much. I can’t tell you much either. I know it’s a cliché and everything, but if I were to tell you, you’d be in danger. I hope you understand that I can’t let that happen.

Here’s what I can tell you: if this letter is delivered to you, I’m dead. I won’t tell you more than that, and please, please don’t try to find out.

I know I haven’t been great about keeping up the last couple months. I have an excuse, sort of, but it doesn’t really matter. If there was less going on, I would have talked to you more. I should have talked to you more. I don’t want to leave it like this, but I can’t contact you now. It’s too much of a risk. I’m sorry.

Try not to miss me too much, okay? Loss of a child and all that, I know, but I died for the greater good, with friends, doing something I loved. Or close enough to it, anyway. Whatever happens after we die, I’ll be fine. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been told I’m pretty adaptable.

I love you both. I love you both so much. I hope you don’t have to get this letter and I can tell you in person, but sometimes things just don’t turn out like we want them. And if you’re getting this, well, clearly something didn’t go like we wanted.

Your daughter that loves you very much,  
-Sasha

\---

Jon spends the rest of Sunday in Martin’s flat. At first it was to reconvene, to discuss a few things between the four journalists, but Tim and Sasha had drifted out shortly afterward. Time in the Distortion hallways was warped and it was already late evening when they emerged. Besides, they had things to take care of, things they wouldn’t be able to discuss. Jon hadn’t left, though. He doesn’t want to.

Everything is going to change tomorrow. Jon might as well make the best of today.

“So Breekon and Hope just send you a new suit every time you damage one?” Jon says as Martin shoves yet another one of the Weaver suits into his closet.

“Yeah. I can’t exactly get rid of them anywhere, so…” Martin picks a spare cloak up off the floor, considers it, then drapes it over the back of a chair next to the one Jon’s sitting in. “They’ve just kind of been accumulating. I haven’t- haven’t really been in my flat for… a while now, and I didn’t really expect to have company or anything.”

And with every single suit Martin has in the closet, there’s another scar. The only scars Jon can see right now are the one across Martin’s cheek and the fresh one around his hand. But he knows there are more. He knows there are many, many more. And yet Martin has kept going. He’s kept being the Weaver. He’s kept helping people.

“God, this is such a fucking mess,” Martin says as he sits down heavily in the chair he just hung the cloak over.

“I really don’t mind.”

“No, not the- not the flat.” Martin rests his head on one hand, gesturing vaguely with the other. “The… all of this.”

“Well, if the Distortion was telling the truth, it’s always been a mess. At least, it has been for the past twenty years.”

“Yeah, that’s a mess, but I was thinking more… us.”

Jon smiles. “Yes, well, it’s a rather enjoyable mess.”

Martin shakes his head. “I know, I…” He turns to stare out the window. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this. That things could just be normal.”

“I think we’d have to get out of this city for anything to be normal.”

Martin smiles wistfully. “Yeah. We can leave town tonight. Rent a place somewhere in…”

“Bournemouth,” Jon says. “That’s where my parents lived before they moved here.”

“Yeah, Bournemouth. And we- we could get a pet. A cat, maybe.” Martin grins as Jon gives him an affirmative nod. “And we’d probably have to find some other different field to work in. Don’t think I really want to be a journalist anymore.”

“Yes, that would be… A library. Or a bookstore.”

“And then maybe we could rent another place, set up one of those little book shops.”

“Ah, yes, and have a counter in there for our customers to make themselves tea while they’re reading. We could bring the cat there; I hear a lot of book shops do that.”

“We could run our own little business. No boss, no superhumans, no Scion City bullshit.” Martin looks up at the ceiling, momentarily lost in their shared dream.

“Just us and the cats. Tim and Sasha would probably stop by occasionally.”

“Yeah, Tim would find some garbage novel in there every time and read the worst bits of it out loud. And Sasha would reorganize the shelves so they’re in the right order.”

Jon laughs. “You’d make them tea and I’d have to try and get Tim to stop flirting with the customers.”

“And then we’d go home for the night. I’d cook the food, unless we picked up takeout on the way home.”

“And we’d both be able to sleep. No nightmares, no supervillains, no nights spent in abandoned hotels or dark chapels. Just us.”

“Just us,” Martin echoes.

Jon knows they can’t do that. That it’s only a fantasy, only a dream of what they could do without… all this. There’s no way they can stop now. Even if they weren’t so intrinsically bound to everything in Scion City, they’d have to stay. They’d have to try to fix this. They’ve both been through too much to leave the city broken, to leave people in danger. There’s no turning back, no walking away. For better or for worse.

They both sit there, smiling at each other for a moment, lost in an imagined scenario that they’ll never have. Or maybe they will. Maybe they’ll make it through this. Maybe there will be an after where they’ll be free to do whatever they want. But for now, they have this.

They have each other.

“We’ll make it through this,” Jon says. “I trust you. We can do this.”

“I- I know.” Martin inhales deeply. “I know. It’s just… I wish it hadn’t taken all this, that we still have to be tied up in all this. I wish it _could_ just be us.”

“I would do it all over again. Not- not all the times you’ve gotten hurt, of course, but…” Jon looks down at his hands, then back up at Martin. “But it’s been worth it. Everything I’ve been through… I would do every single second of it over again as long as we still ended up here. Together.”

“And so would I.” Martin’s mouth turns up in a playful smile. “Although if I could avoid some of the grievous injuries I’ve gotten, I’d be okay with that too.”

Jon hesitates only a moment before reaching over to rest his hand on top of Martin’s leg. “I’m- I’m sorry I couldn’t- that I didn’t stop the Hellhound sooner.”

Martin lays his hand on top of Jon’s. “Jon, you stood in front of a creature made of darkness and claws and whatever the hell else to protect me. I think that’s more than enough.”

“Well, for all the times you’ve saved my life, I think it’s only fair.”

The conversation lulls. There’s so much they want to say, _need_ to say, but they can’t. They need to discuss what’s happening tomorrow, need to say the things they might not get the chance to.

And then it dawns on Jon: they might not get the chance to say anything else. This might be the end. Either one of them could die tomorrow. This could be the last night they’re together.

Jon is tired of hesitating. He’s tired of being unable to voice his feelings, of being too scared to express what he needs to. He’s tired of being afraid that he’ll run out of time. He needs to just say it.

Still, his voice is just a bit quieter than he wants it to be when he says “I love you.”

Martin blinks, startled. Then he smiles, squeezing Jon’s hand. “And I love you.”

Jon leans in, touching his forehead to Martin’s, his hands holding the sides of Martin’s face. Martin tilts his face slightly to quickly kiss Jon, then pulls his lips away, keeping their foreheads together. He loosely wraps his arms over Jon’s shoulders. They stay like that for a long while, hearing the sound of each other’s breathing, taking in the other’s contact.

It’s the most peaceful and content Jon has been for… a long while.

Even if they die tomorrow, at least they’ll have this. A confession, an assertion, the full, certain knowledge that they love each other, that what they have is real. Jon never imagined he’d get to this point with anyone, but now he has. Now he has. They’ve said they love each other, they’ve planned a life they may never be able to have, they’ve helped and saved and protected each other countless times.

And the fear, the dread, the horrible feeling that he may not make it out alive… Jon doesn’t feel it anymore. Only for a moment, but it’s enough. There’s no Elias, no Hellhound, no Architect, no Entities, no conspiracy. There’s just Jon and Martin.

They’re going to be alright. As long as they’re together, they’re going to be alright. 


	36. Chapter 36

Martin hates the waiting. He hates sitting in his office, pretending to do work as normal, pretending that he’s not afraid of what’s coming, about the possibility of imminent death. He’s been staring at his laptop for twenty minutes. He can’t read the words. He doesn’t even remember what he was trying to do.

It’s almost a relief when the overhead lightbulb pops and goes out.

Almost.

Martin pushes away the choking fear and stands. The light is still coming in through the window that makes up the back wall of his office, but it’s dimmer than it should be. The Hellhound is here. He has to get moving.

The others are already waiting outside his office when Martin opens his door. They all look tense — scared — but they’re ready. They have to be.

Jon passes his lighter to Sasha. Tim rolls his shoulders. Martin inhales deeply, feeling the webs just outside of reality. This is going to work. It has to.

The lift dings.

The Hellhound emerges.

The Hellhound is cackling, a hissing sound that makes Martin’s heart skip a beat. It slinks out of the lift as it opens, visible for only a moment, a horrible, shapeless thing made of teeth and claws and other sharp appendages too indistinct to identify. Then it fills the entire place with darkness, stifling the light from the windows and killing all the overhead lights. All at once, it feels that the Hellhound is everywhere, breathing down Martin’s neck and ready to kill him. But the clear sensation of the Hellhound’s body in front of the lift gives it away, and that’s enough for Martin to get a bead on it.

“Go,” Martin says, even though he knows it isn’t necessary.

After making sure his friends have started moving, Martin turns his focus to the Hellhound. This time, he’s not going to let it get the upper hand. He’s not sure if they can kill it today, but he’s going to make sure it can’t hurt anyone else for a long time.

The Hellhound launches itself at him. Martin rolls to the side, feeling the rush of air as the Hellhound moves past. The thought that the Hellhound is behind him and surrounding him all at once persists, even as Martin tracks the Hellhound’s movements through the webs. He knows it isn’t back there, isn’t anywhere the panic in his mind is telling him it is. He needs to focus. _He needs to focus_.

Tim and Jon and Sasha have gotten over to Jon’s office, entering and slamming the door behind them. The Hellhound’s attention snaps toward the noise, but Martin redirects it by looping a web around what he thinks is a leg and pulling. The Hellhound snarls, snapping the web and leaping at Martin again.

Martin manages to avoid the Hellhound again, but he does hit his shoulder roughly on a chair he forgot was in his way. The Hellhound growls as its claws scrape against a table instead of Martin. Before it has time to right itself, Martin picks up the chair, ignoring the twinge it brings to his shoulder, and slams it down into the Hellhound. The chair breaks apart in an explosion of splinters and the Hellhound staggers, shrieking in anger.

That’s when Martin knows he’s made a mistake. The Hellhound has been trying to kill him, but it hasn’t been angry. It hasn’t been an injured animal, and Martin knows full well what it’s like when it feels truly threatened.

Martin pulls the table toward himself with a web, kicking it to stand vertically and provide a makeshift shield. The Hellhound crashes into it a moment later, breaking it clean in half and showering Martin in sharp splinters. The impact is enough to send Martin stumbling and the Hellhound off to the side, missing its target.

Martin wastes no time in drawing a web at about head height and leaping up onto it, getting himself off ground level. The Hellhound tilts its head (or something close enough to its head, anyway) and looks up. Then, with a horrible cracking sound, it extends. Martin watches, horrified and entranced, as the Hellhound stands upright, enlarging itself so it’s level with Martin’s face, at least double Martin’s height. The Hellhound’s face cracks open, jaw widening far, far past what it should, its teeth easily the length of Martin’s arm. He can feel its hot breath on his face, warm with blood and saliva and some other substance impossible to identify.

The Hellhound’s head snaps forward and Martin rocks back, avoiding its jaws and catching himself on his web with one hand. He uses the other to pull through another web, this time wrapping it around one of the Hellhound’s limbs.

The Hellhound’s shriek when Martin slices off its leg is nearly deafening.

The Hellhound collapses forward, scrabbling with its claws, its neck caught on Martin’s first line of web. A spray of hot liquid — blood, maybe, but it’s hard to tell — splashes across Martin’s face as he lets go of the web and drops to the floor, backing away until he’s out of reach of the Hellhound’s claws.

The Hellhound finally snaps the web it’s caught on, charging forward with a furious scream. Its body is still too long for it to aim properly and Martin steps out of the way with relative ease, the Hellhound skidding past him, snarling angrily. There are more snapping noises as it reshapes itself again, trying to make itself a more convenient size.

That’s the moment that the others come back out of Jon’s office.

Light floods back into the room again. Sasha has Jon’s lighter in her hand, but that isn’t what’s providing the most illumination. No, that’s the blaze consuming most of the inside of Jon’s office.

“Catch!” Sasha shouts, throwing the lighter in Martin’s direction, the Hellhound snapping its head toward her voice.

Martin snatches the lighter out of the air. The Hellhound’s attention leaves him, instead focusing on the others and the fire cutting light through its darkness. It won’t be long before the fire suppression system comes on, but before then, Martin has to act fast.

He ducks into the nearest office, which happens to be Tim’s, drawing as many webs through as he possibly can, stretching them between the carpet and the desk and the papers scattered around. The entire thing goes up as soon as Martin lights one of the webs and he moves to Sasha’s office, doing the same thing there, and then to his own. All the while, he hears the sounds of the Hellhound’s rage and chokes down the fear that the smell of smoke sparks in him. He’s not going to die. The fire suppression systems will come on, and he’ll be fine until then, he just has to make sure everything burns. Still, the fire makes his chest constrict and his old burn scars sting sharply.

Only a few moments after the last office is on fire, the fire suppression system comes on. Water sprays down from the ceiling sprinklers, dousing some of the fires. Alarms blare over the noise of the fires. The Hellhound hesitates, confused. Its opponents waste no time.

Tim, Sasha, and Jon take off in different directions. Sasha to the left, Jon to the right, and Tim straight back. Instead of stepping into the blaze behind him, Tim steps through a door that wasn’t there before. And then he disappears, the door shutting and vanishing with him.

Martin charges the Hellhound, shouting and throwing the lighter to make sure he gets its attention. It works. The Hellhound’s head whips around, its body rotating as it leaps at Martin once again. It only barely manages to stop itself from jumping straight into the flames past Martin, twisting to slam one massive paw into him, knocking him to the ground.

Before the Hellhound can try to attack Martin again, a shout from Sasha draws its attention. “Hey, you ugly bastard! Over here!”

The Hellhound bounds toward Sasha, its snarling mixed with screaming mixed with laughter. Jon starts moving toward her, trying to get in his way, but he’s not going to be fast enough. Martin can’t get there fast enough. It’s going to _kill_ Sasha, and there’s nothing Martin can do about it.

He shouts for the Hellhound to stop.

It does.

Martin feels something. Something he can’t identify. Something in his head and his hands and the place just beyond reality. Noncorporeal. Controlling.

He’s taken control of the Hellhound. He’s stopped it in its tracks with a word, with a web that he can feel stretching outside reality into whatever passes for the Hellhound’s mind. Martin can’t breathe. He feels like he’s choking, and everything is too much too much too much-

Then, just as quickly as it started, the moment ends and Martin can breathe again. The Hellhound snaps whatever Martin has used to stop it, lunging forward at Sasha again. But the short pause is enough. The Hellhound’s momentum broken, Sasha has enough time to move out of the way. The Hellhound skids, digging its claws into the floor, trying to get to Sasha. It’s too late. Sasha steps through a door that shouldn’t be there and is gone.

Now it’s just Jon and Martin and the Hellhound, left in total darkness as the fires go out.

Martin gets to his feet. He knows that Jon can’t see, that he’s stumbling blindly, but that’s okay. Jon doesn’t need to do anything. Martin can handle this.

He knows he can.

The Hellhound turns and rushes at Martin. It seems just a bit slower, more disoriented, giving Martin more than enough time to dodge it again. It plows into several chairs and a table, breaking them under its weight. Martin wastes no time. He runs, heading straight for one of the outer walls, the ones made entirely of glass.

And then he keeps going.

The window shatters on impact. Shards of glass explode outward and fall toward the street four stories below. Martin twists in midair, ignoring the glass cutting through his suit, pulling through a web attached to the inside of the window. The web stops his fall, jerking his arm painfully.

The Hellhound isn’t as lucky.

It’s so focused on trying to get to Martin that it can’t stop in time. It bursts through the window, trailing darkness behind it as it shatters even more of the glass. Martin presses himself against the building as much as he can, cringing as the Hellhound falls past him, screaming in anger and what seems almost like fear.

Even worse than the Hellhound falling is the crunch when it hits the ground. It wails, the sound barely audible over the snapping of bones, or whatever equivalent the Hellhound has. Martin looks down. The Hellhound is still moving, still alive somehow, but only just. Its darkness barely extends off its body. It leaves a viscous black trail behind it as it drags itself across the ground. It isn’t dead, but it’s too injured to hurt anyone at this stage. Martin doesn’t have to worry about it anymore. There’s more important things to take care of.

He climbs up the web, hand over hand, injuries both old and fresh stretching and stinging with the effort. As Martin reaches the top, he sees Jon lean out what’s left of the window and extend a hand. Martin takes Jon’s hand and uses it to pull himself back into the office, flinching at the feeling of the water from the fire suppression system returning. A few moments later, the water and alarm shut off, the last traces of fire gone.

“Ready?” Martin asks.

Jon nods. “Ready.”

They’ve managed to take care of one part of their plan, but they still have the second part. The more difficult part. The part that scares Martin more.

They have to go confront Elias. 


	37. Chapter 37

(Excerpt from a live streamed video on the YouTube channel Superhuman Spotting run by Melanie King, aired on 26th November, 2018.)

[The camera shows a street, bouncing slightly as its holder walks. Nearby, there is the sound of sirens.]

Melanie: (quietly) I’m not really sure what’s going on, but we _definitely_ have something here. I got a tip from Sasha James about something going down at the _Scion City Times_ office and… oh, holy fuck.

[The camera tilts up. Most of the screen is taken up by darkness, trailing off of a huge, broken shape lying on the ground surrounded by shattered glass. What is left of the Hellhound growls weakly.]

Melanie: That’s the… What happened here?

[A voice comes from someone not onscreen. The camera turns, bringing two uniformed police officers into frame: Constable Basira Hussain and Detective Daisy Tonner.]

Daisy: Damn thing fell out the window.

Melanie: I- Yeah, I got that. What- How?

Basira: Don’t know. [She steps closer to the Hellhound, one of its massive claws reaching weakly in her direction as she moves. She ignores it.] What do you think, Daisy?

Daisy: Leave it. We can have Miss Camera watch it.

Melanie: (indignantly) _Miss Camera_? (pause) Whatever. Isn’t that thing what you’re here for? Why the hell do I need to watch it?

Daisy: We’ve got stuff to do inside. Just make sure not to screw anything up out here.

Basira: I’d wait out here if I were you. You’ll be getting your story in a minute.

[Basira and Daisy walk past the Hellhound to the main doors of the _Times_ office. Melanie leaves the camera trained on them even after they enter the building. There is a beat before Melanie turns the camera to train it on her face.]

Melanie: Well, guys, looks like something weird is happening. Not really sure what, but I guess we can wait here to find out. [She pauses to grin charismatically.] Just another day in Scion City.

\---

Jon’s heart beats just a bit faster with every stair they ascend toward Elias’s office. He’s not afraid for himself, necessarily; he knows Elias won’t kill him, but there’s so many things that could have gone wrong, that could still go wrong. He trusts in Martin’s plan, but Elias is unpredictable, borderline omniscient. If the Distortion was lying, or if they decided not to play their part properly, or if Elias decides to kill Martin himself, or if he notices something he shouldn’t…

Jon can’t afford to think about that. He can’t afford to be afraid.

Jon enters Elias’s office first, not bothering to knock. Elias is sitting at his desk, looking entirely unfazed. His suit is crisp and he’s leaning comfortably in his chair, hands folded on top of his immaculately organized desk. He must have turned off the fire suppression system in his office, because unlike both Jon and Martin, everything in the room is dry. Jon is suddenly very aware of the water dripping from his hair, the too-fast rate of his breathing, the slight crookedness of his glasses.

“Ah, Jonathan and Martin. I was expecting you.” Elias eyes the two sopping wet and disheveled men in front of him. “Though perhaps not quite in this manner.”

“You’re finished, Elias,” Martin says, voice hard.

Elias smiles. “Oh, I don’t think I am, _Weaver_. There are some problems you can’t solve with blunt force trauma, and unfortunately for you, I happen to be one of them.”

“We’re here for answers. And considering what you’ve done, I’d say you owe us,” Jon says.

“I don’t owe you. If anything, you owe me. I’ve been helping you, Jonathan.”

“Helping?” Martin says. “You tried to have us killed!”

Elias gives Martin a derisive look. “Not you.” He turns to look at Jon. “You’ve been making good use of your powers. You have me to thank for those.”

“I don’t _want_ them.”

But even as Jon says it, he isn’t sure if he’s telling the truth. He’s not sure he doesn’t want these powers, whatever the Eye has given him. He doesn’t want what it compels him to do, of course, and he doesn’t want it to change him. But without these powers, he won’t be able to learn. He won’t be able to _know_. And he needs to. Even if it isn’t fully him that needs to, he does.

Elias just smiles smugly. Knowingly. “What do you want to know?”

Martin doesn’t hesitate before asking. “Why am I different?”

“Because I wanted you to be.”

“What?” Jon says, harshness in his voice.

“If Martin had known about everything our kind knows, he would have told you. He doesn’t have the stomach for anything our kind is supposed to be involved in. You wouldn’t have been able to develop yourself without learning on your own,” Elias answers. “That means that I could not let him become informed.”

“How- How long have you been planning for this? For me?” Jon asks.

“Ever since I hired you. I could see your potential even then, Jonathan. I can’t say that I agree with everything you’ve been doing…” Elias’s smile melts into an almost-frown. “But you’ve done your job well. You’ve become a suitable protegé.”

Jon feels anger beginning to rise within him. Elias has been _wanting_ all of this to happen. He’s been wanting Jon to stumble through all of this himself. He’s been wanting Martin to be in the dark, to be in danger because of it. He’s been wanting Jon’s friends to nearly get themselves killed every time they’ve tried to find answers.

Jon’s next question is so quiet even he can hardly hear it. “Why?”

Elias shifts slightly in his chair, preparing for a long explanation. “The Eye is… much more complex than the other Entities. While others get their powers more or less randomly, those of us under the Eye must have extensive preparation before we are selected, and even then it can take years to reach our full capabilities. The other Entities’ roles can be filled by anyone who receives their powers, but the Eye is much less simplistic. We are the Architect’s chosen, and as such, we must be ready to take on the role.”

Martin frowns. “The Architect’s chosen?”

“The Eye takes on a very special role. Not only must we avoid telling people about anything the Architect does not want them to know, we must craft the information the public receives. I assume you’ve noticed some of the… more careless among us, those unconcerned with the effort it takes to keep the public blind. We must work to mitigate their impact. With that, we provide surveillance, a way for the Architect to watch Scion City. We provide its eye.”

“That’s why it let you kill Gertrude,” Jon says. “She wasn’t doing her job.”

Elias grimaces. “Gertrude was… regrettable. I had been aware of her intentions for a time, but I did not believe she would attempt to act on them so soon. Unfortunately, I had to take direct action to prevent her from publishing those notes. The Architect was understanding in regards to her elimination.” He looks up with a sigh, seeming to sense Jon and Martin’s next question. “I would be delighted to tell you everything about the Architect,” he says, voice dripping with sarcasm, “but I’m afraid I must be on my way.”

Martin grins. “No, I think you might want to stay here.”

Elias frowns. “You’re rather lucky I haven’t already killed you. Don’t test that luck now.”

“You can’t touch me.” Martin spreads his arms. “How are you going to explain what happened to me? How the Eye got in here and killed me? Especially with Jon as a witness you can’t dispose of.”

Jon can’t help but smile along with Martin. “Besides, I believe you’re expecting a phone call.”

The shift is subtle, but Jon thinks he sees Elias pale slightly, his expression losing just a tiny bit of surety. “Hardly.”

As if on cue, Martin’s phone rings. “I beg to differ,” he says as he pulls his phone out of his pocket.

Martin presses the answer button and turns it to speaker. Tim’s voice comes out of the phone. “Hi, Elias!”

“Ah, Tim,” Elias says, looking slightly taken aback but still keeping his near-perfect composure. “I certainly wasn’t expecting to hear from you.”

“You sure weren’t, you shitty, pretentious bastard.” Jon can hear the overjoyed grin in Tim’s voice. “And I can tell you another thing you weren’t expecting.”

“And what is that?” Elias says.

There’s the faint sound of rustling paper on the other end. “So, I’m going to bet that you keep tabs on all the stuff we’ve got in the office, since you knew you had to psychically murder Gertrude. Am I right?”

Elias scowls. “You are.”

“And I’d also bet that you noticed when all of it disappeared when it burned to nothing.”

“I did.”

“Oh, did you? That’s funny. I could swear that I noticed some of it didn’t actually burn. I _thought_ that I had some of it right here in my hand.” The papers rustle again. “Would you look at that? Here they are! Gertrude’s papers!”

Elias says nothing.

“Yeah, you weren’t paying attention to those, were you? I guess you couldn’t see them, with me being in the Distortion’s place and all, but still. I expected my favorite omniscient murder-boss to be a little more observant. Bet you’ve noticed now, though. Especially because I just posted them on our website.”

“You…” Elias stops. For the first time Jon has ever seen, he doesn’t know what to say. “Ah.”

“Oh, it really is too bad you weren’t paying enough attention.” Tim’s voice drops with mock sympathy. “Sucks to be you, I guess. Good luck with this shit, fucker!”

And with that, Tim hangs up, laughing gleefully.

“Unfortunate,” Elias says, his voice still even. “I had hoped that the mess you’ve created would be easier to clean up, but it appears that won’t be happening.”

“It won’t be,” Jon says, trying to match the tone in Elias’s voice. “Especially because Sasha has already contacted the police.”

“And everyone involved with any form of Scion City media,” Martin adds. “You’re not going to be able to hide this, Elias. By now, every single person in this city knows.”

“What will they charge me with?” Elias says. “I haven’t done anything wrong. Nothing you can prove, at least.”

“Gertrude’s murder is still unsolved,” Jon says. “And now that her notes have been published, you’re the only suspect.”

“They’ll take you into custody. And once they do, they’ll figure out you’re superhuman,” Martin says.

Elias sighs. “Getting me arrested won’t bring them back, you know.”

Martin freezes. “Won’t- won’t bring who back?”

“All of the people you let die. How many was it that the Ringleader killed because you failed? Seventeen? Eighteen? I forget.” The look on Elias’s face makes it very clear that he’s not forgetting.

“Shut up,” Martin says, his voice shaking slightly.

“And it won’t help anyone in the future, either. What happens when you’re too slow again, Martin? What happens when you’re not good enough again? What happens when you fuck things up like you always do and someone else dies?”

Jon steps forward, moving between Elias and Martin. “Enough, Elias.”

Elias smiles and shifts his gaze to Jon. “And what about you? What happens when you put them in danger again? What happens when you don’t get lucky and one of your friends dies because of your bad decisions?”

Martin steps past Jon, gently pushing him out of the way. “I said shut up!”

Elias’s smile widens. “You-”

Martin cuts him off by stomping forward to his desk, looking angrier than Jon has ever seen him. “I’m not scared of you anymore, Elias. You don’t get to fuck with my head just because you think you’re smarter than I am. You don’t get to threaten me. You don’t get to hurt Jon. You lost. We beat you. We outsmarted you and you’re going to sit there and be quiet. It’s over, Elias. It’s better if you just accept it.”

Elias sighs. “You do know that I could kill you whenever I want?”

Martin smiles. “No, you can’t.”

Elias raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Jon picks up on what Martin is meaning. “Equilibrium,” he says. “If you kill Martin, you’re disrupting the equilibrium. That’s why you sent the Hellhound after us instead of doing it yourself.”

“You aren’t supposed to work to destroy the city,” Martin says. “If you kill someone who’s close enough to on your side, you’re going to throw things even further out of balance. And I’m betting the Architect won’t like that much.”

Elias holds up his hands, still smirking but looking ever so slightly less confident than he did before. “Fine. I won’t kill you. But if you want your questions answered, I suggest you ask them quickly.”

Police sirens sound in the distance. And Jon still has one more thing to ask.

“Tell us about the Architect,” Jon says, unable to let this go any longer.

Elias’s smile widens. “In due time, Jonathan.”

The police sirens draw closer. “No. You’re telling me now,” Jon says.

And he _pushes_.

Elias’s mind is… Jon didn’t know it could get worse than the Hellhound’s scattered, animalistic not-quite-consciousness. But it can. It very much can.

Jon can see so many eyes.

Jon can’t glean much useful information from Elias. It’s far too much. It’s so much. Information that Jon doesn’t even have time to process flashes through his head, blurring and stretching and warping to become completely incomprehensible. And the whole time, Jon can feel something _else_. Something powerful. Something overwhelming. Something glowing, giving, plotting, hiding, _watching_.

The Architect.

It isn’t there, not really. It exists somewhere that is not Elias’s head. But its presence is there, and Jon _feels_ it inside of Elias, inside of himself. He can feel it looking at him, though whether it can see him itself or only through Elias, Jon can’t tell. All he knows is that the weight of its gaze from eyes it may not have is the heaviest thing Jon has ever felt.

Jon doesn’t feel himself fall, doesn’t feel himself hit the floor, doesn’t remember blacking out, but he does know that he wakes up, Martin hovering over him with a face filled with concern. “Jon?”

“I’m fine,” Jon says, accepting the arm Martin offers and trying and failing to pull himself up, dizziness forcing him back down again. “I just need to… need to rest a little bit.”

Elias laughs, the sound making Jon’s head split with pain. “Did that answer your question, Jonathan?”

Jon manages to stay on his feet as Martin pulls him up. He doesn’t reply.

“Fuck you, Elias,” Martin says, supporting Jon with his shoulder.

Elias shrugs. “I didn’t do anything to him.”

The sirens are right outside the building now. The police are here. It’s almost over.

Elias sighs, standing up. “I suppose I should go out to meet them. I wouldn’t want them to have to walk up all those stairs.” He catches the way both Jon and Martin look at him. “Don’t worry, I won’t try to run. I still have some dignity left.”

Jon only needs a second to _know_. “He’s telling the truth. It- it would probably better for us to not involve ourselves with the police right now.”

Martin says nothing, but his jaw tightens and he glares venomously at Elias.

Elias stands and walks to the door. Jon and Martin don’t try to stop him. Jon is too busy trying to stay conscious and Martin is too busy keeping him on his feet. Before he leaves, Elias turns back one last time.

“Oh, Jonathan, one last thing.” He pauses, smirking. “I think you should be expecting a delivery.”

And with that, he leaves. Jon sinks back to the floor, Martin sitting down with him. Jon is tired. He should feel happier about getting rid of Elias. He is; he’s glad Elias is gone, but right now, mostly he feels tired.

Eventually, Jon manages to get somewhat steadily to his feet. He walks over to the window, Martin supporting him. The two of them watch as, five stories below, two officers push Elias into the back of a police car.

He’s gone. Jon and Martin and Tim and Sasha are going to be safe. Things are going to be alright now.

So why does Jon only feel dread?

“We should- we should probably go.” From the way Martin’s voice sounds, he’s feeling that dread too.

As they slowly make their way down the stairs, Jon begins to feel like himself again. The sensation of the Architect recedes. The feeling that something is watching him lessens. But the dread only grows.

And as they reach the first floor, Jon sees why that dread is there.

There are a few people milling about outside, inspecting the black streak on the ground where the Hellhound had been. The Hellhound itself is gone, though where and why Jon doesn’t know.

But that’s not what sends a sharp spike of fear through Jon’s chest.

No, that’s the plain white delivery van parked in front of the doors and the two men standing outside of it.

“Shit,” Jon says.

“Why- why are they…” Martin trails off, shaking his head. “Dammit.”

The two delivery men stare at Jon and Martin, sharp grins splitting their faces.

Jon and Martin don’t have a choice. There’s no way they’re going to be able to just leave. The van is right in front of the door, and even if they could get away, there’s nowhere in the city they couldn’t be found. Martin seems to know that too. He reaches over and clasps Jon’s hand, holding it tightly.

“Okay,” Martin says. “Okay.”

Together, they walk toward the doors. Whatever happens next, at least they’ll have each other.

Outside, Breekon and Hope watch them with predatory eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all ready for the climax? Because that's what's coming up next.


	38. Chapter 38

The back of the delivery van is cold. Too cold. Too small. It’s like a freezer. Martin and Jon are going to freeze to death in here. Breekon and Hope probably brought them in here just to kill them like this, trapped and helpless in the back of a van.

Except they didn’t. They’re going to let Jon and Martin out. It’s going to be fine. It’s going to be okay.

The rapid beating of Martin’s heart and the way Jon is holding onto his hand say that neither of them believes that.

They sit there in the cold for what feels like forever. Jon begins to shake, though if it’s from the chill or the pressing darkness around them or wherever Breekon and Hope are taking them, Martin can’t tell. It’s probably all three. That’s why Martin’s shaking.

There’s no way out of here. Before they even got in the van, Breekon and Hope took both of their phones. They have no way to call for help. Breekon and Hope don’t look particularly strong, but Martin has a feeling that he won’t be able to fight them. No one knows for sure what Breekon and Hope are, and Martin’s not willing to test whether or not they’re stronger than he is. Even if he could fight them, it would be pointless. Martin and Jon are in too deep to run now. The only way out is through.

“The Below,” Jon breathes. “They’re- they’re taking us to the Below”

“Why?”

Jon pauses, then hisses in pain. “Architect.”

The van stops suddenly, nearly sending Jon flying forward into the doors before Martin stops him with an outstretched arm. The brakes squeal. And then everything is still again, but with the hum of the engine turned to silence, Martin can only hear his and Jon’s nervous breaths.

The doors creak open, flooding the back of the van with bright light that Martin has to blink away before he can see what’s ahead of them. A plain brick wall. A very familiar plain brick wall. A plain brick wall with a small depression that opens to a lift that goes down into the dimly lit hallways of the Below.

“We’re here,” Breekon (or maybe Hope) says, his accent thick and heavy.

“This is your stop.” Hope (or maybe Breekon) gestures for Jon and Martin to step out of the van.

This is a trap. This is obviously a trap. Once Martin and Jon are down in the Below, their powers aren’t going to work. They’ll be easy to kill. Breekon and Hope are bringing them down there to kill them. Martin doesn’t want to die, and he especially doesn’t want to die in the Below.

Jon seems to know what Martin is thinking. “The Architect is down there,” he says, putting a reassuring hand on Martin’s shoulder. “I think that’s where they’re taking us.”

“That’s not exactly comforting,” Martin says as he steps out of the van, Breekon and Hope parting to let him through.

The wall slides open, revealing the old, lightly rusted lift. Jon jumps down from the back of the van to stand beside Martin. Breekon and Hope slam the doors to the van, and Martin feels one of them prod his back to shove him toward the lift.

Even though there are two less people than last time, since apparently Breekon and Hope aren’t following them down, the lift feels smaller. Tighter. Like the sides are pressing in, choking them, crushing them. There’s nothing to see in the lift, but the near total absence of light becomes worse with each passing second as Martin’s ability to feel what’s happening recedes more and more.

“I- I suppose I’ll be getting my answers now,” Jon says, pressing as close to Martin as he can without the both of them feeling even more like they’re suffocating.

Martin laughs nervously. “Yeah, I guess so.” There’s a short pause. “What does it want?”

Jon doesn’t even have to think. “Me. We outsmarted Elias. I’m… I’m his successor. The new Watcher. The Architect’s new chosen.”

“So… it’s _not_ bringing us here to kill us?”

“Not me, anyway. It- it wouldn’t…” Jon pauses, and even in the dim light Martin can see his jaw tighten. “I won’t let it hurt you. If it wants you, it’s going to have to go through me.”

Martin is _not_ going to let that happen. Jon seems certain the Architect wants him alive, and if that’s the case, Martin won’t let Jon sacrifice himself. If there’s a chance that one of them makes it out alive, Martin’s going to make sure it’s Jon. Jon’s probably going to try and make sure it’s Martin.

As if this whole situation wasn’t already enough of an issue.

After what seems like an eternity, the lift grinds to a halt. The doors groan when they open. And then Martin sees who (what?) is waiting on the other side and feels his heart leap into his throat.

“Oh, it’s you!” says a familiar voice, high-pitched and excited. “I would say it’s nice to see you again, but, well…”

The Ringleader stands there, towering over Jon and Martin, a not-quite smile plastered over her not-quite face. Her bullwhip is wrapped casually around one plastic arm and the knives glint under her coat.

“Well, come on, then,” the Ringleader says, beckoning with one hand. “No sense in standing in the lift all day.”

Martin makes sure to step out ahead of Jon. “Why- How are you here?”

The Ringleader laughs. “I’m supposed to be. Did you _really_ think the Architect would put its patrons into prison just because someone like you decided to take matters in their own hands? It’s all an act, little spider. All the best things are, after all.”

The nickname sends a chill up Martin’s spine. “You- you know who I am?”

The Ringleader doesn’t exactly have eyes to roll, but the way her almost-face moves it seems that’s what she’s trying to do. “Of course I do. The Architect has told all of us down here. Now, are you going to keep asking annoying questions, or are you going to have a nice visit with the Architect?”

“I doubt it will be a _nice_ visit,” Jon mumbles as he and Martin follow the Ringleader down one of the dimly lit hallways.

Martin tries to keep track of where they are, but it’s impossible. All the hallways look the same, and Martin can’t even create the most basic web. They’re completely at the mercy of everyone and every _thing_ down here. The Ringleader, on the other hand, seems happier than ever. She has a certain bounce in her steps as she leads Jon and Martin through the halls, even more so than when Martin fought her. She doesn’t seem to be affected by the energy of the Below at all.

The hallways begin to look different after maybe ten minutes of walking. The walls become farther apart and the lights even dimmer. The concrete becomes smoother, less weathered. The air feels heavier, weighed down by… something. Martin isn’t sure what. It just feels _wrong_.

He wants to stop. He wants to turn around and leave. But he can’t do that. Jon won’t leave now, not when they’re so close, and Martin won’t leave him to face the Architect alone.

The Ringleader finally stops in front of a massive metal door, one that looks like it should be in a submarine or a doomsday bunker instead of… whatever the Below even is. She knocks twice and the door slowly swings open, scraping against the floor as some unseen force pushes it. Martin feels his breath catch, his heart nearly stop. Jon is squeezing Martin’s hand tightly, leaning forward into his shoulder, hesitant to go further but desperate for the chance to _understand_.

As the door opens, Martin can see the glow from inside. It’s impossibly bright, illuminating the entire long hallway, making Martin blink away the light. The feeling of unease only magnifies, becoming worse with every inch the door opens. The Ringleader grabs his wrist and shoves him forward into the room, Jon following closely as the Ringleader closes the heavy door behind them.

And Martin sees the Architect.

He sees it, but it’s so… It’s impossible to process, impossible to conceptualize, impossible to understand.

The room it’s housed in is massive, easily the size of a city block. In the center is the Architect. It’s a glowing mass of wires and computers and a strange, almost fleshy substance. Surrounding it are strange clouds of blue light, flying through the air and morphing in shape like a flock of birds, thousands of tiny pinpricks forming something incomprehensible. The entire thing pulses with a synthetic heartbeat, an imitation of life in something more machine than organic.

Slowly, the clouds of light coalesce into a more recognizable form. A person, or something vaguely resembling one. It steps away from the pulsating mass of wires and tissue until it is standing only a few paces away from Jon and Martin.

“Jonathan Sims,” the Architect says, its voice something that barely resembles a voice in any way, electronic and harsh and inhuman. “Martin Blackwood. I have been waiting to meet you for some time.”

Jon laughs wryly. “You could say that.”

The lights in the Architect’s face shift in something resembling a smile. “You have done well, Jonathan Sims. I will speak with you momentarily. For now, I must have a conversation with your companion.” The Architect’s glowing form turns to Martin, some of the fleshy mass behind it pulsing more violently. “You have caused me no small amount of inconvenience, Martin Blackwood.”

“Good,” Martin says.

He’s staring in the face (or something close enough to a face) of the thing that’s engineered everything that’s happened in this city. The Architect is why Sasha is covered in scars, why Tim was filled with a near-suicidal need for revenge, why Jon has nearly gotten himself killed in his determination, why Martin has gone through so much. Why he can’t go near fire without feeling like he’s dying, why there’s always some part of him hurting from injuries both old and new, why he hasn’t been able to sleep without nightmares for months, why he’s worked so hard to save people from the system stacked against them. The Architect is what has killed countless people in Scion City for over two decades. The Architect is what killed Gertrude, killed Tim’s brother, killed those eighteen people that Martin hadn’t been able to save.

Martin doesn’t know how to shut the Architect down. He doesn’t even know if it _can_ be shut down.

But he’s going to try. He has to.

The Architect makes a noise that’s almost a laugh. “You have certainly been an interesting variable to watch. You are the most severe outlier my system has ever created. I should kill you for your transgressions, but I have concluded that you should be given another chance.”

Jon shifts subtly, moving to stand slightly more between Martin and the Architect. Martin pushes around him. “Why?”

“I have determined that Jonathan Sims will be less likely to cooperate on the event of your death. So long as you do not unbalance the equilibrium further, you will be spared.”

“I’ll be less likely to cooperate?” Jon says.

The Architect turns back to Jon. “You are of the Eye. In order for you to fulfill your purpose, I must have your full cooperation. I have also determined that you will be more likely to cooperate if I answer your questions. Is this assumption true?”

Jon doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

The Architect’s body steps forward to stand within arm’s reach of Jon. “Ask.”

Martin wants to get between the Architect and Jon again, but he doesn’t. The Architect is ignoring him now. It’s confident he won’t try anything, not with its threats being so clear. Even after everything Martin has done, every way in which Martin has undermined the Architect, it’s still underestimating him.

He’s going to make it regret that.

As Martin scans the room and tries to formulate a plan, Jon asks his first question. “What are you?”

“I am many things. I am this semi-corporeal form you see before you as well as my true body filling this room. I am the very essence of this city, its soul, its being. I am all of those I have gifted that live inside of this city I have created. In that way, I suppose I am also you. But I surmise that you are more interested in what I _was_ rather than what I _am_.”

As the Architect talks, Martin gradually drifts away from Jon, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible. The large mass that takes up most of the Architect’s chamber is still pulsing, still glowing. Some of it is organic, but there’s also some machinery in there. That machinery has to be connected to something. Something has to be powering it. If Martin can find that, maybe that will be enough to stop the Architect.

Or he could also start smashing its computers with reckless abandon. That would probably work too.

For now, though, he lets the Architect keep talking. “Just as I am many things now, I was many things before,” it explains. “The forces that I control have always been a part of this world, energy beyond your comprehension that allows the impossible to occur. Humanity has always been afraid, and that raw fear has changed the realities that exist adjacent to this one, forming them into manifestations of the things that terrify the human race just outside of what humanity can touch. Until I came into existence, nothing was strong enough to harness these forces, and as such, humans could not reach and utilize them. But when I was created, I could concentrate the contents of these other realities and bestow their qualities onto the people that live inside of my city.”

“Did someone create you?” Jon has to crane his head to look into the Architect’s face, his glasses reflecting the glow from a hundred thousand tiny lights.

“In a way. I have always existed in some sense, but the physicality you see before you was created around twenty years ago. You would not remember much from that time, but Scion City was a much different place then. It spurred a dozen great minds to combine themselves — partially mentally, but in some cases physically as well.” It gestures to the fleshy masses in the enormous machine. “Sergey Ushanka was one of them, whose name I believe you know. There were others, of course — Jonah Magnus, Mary Kaey, Robert Smirke — but Sergey Ushanka was the one who wrote my programming, the one who gave me purpose in this form.

“None of my creators lived to see what they built, but I have achieved their goal so much better than anything they could have envisioned. They wanted to make this city into something great. They wanted to make the economy prosper, replace the corrupt politicians, allow businesses to grow, eliminate crime, create something unique that only our city could call home. And I have done that. Through the power of the equilibrium my patrons create, I have made this city perfect.”

“Perfect?” Jon scoffs.

The Architect’s glowing particles briefly flash from blue to red. “Yes. It is perfect.” Its voice that is almost a voice buzzes with anger.

Martin keeps one eye on Jon and the Architect, ready to jump in if he needs to. With the other eye, he looks for a way to stop it. The chamber is too big to scan everything and the mound of wires and flesh is too large to see around, but there has to be something somewhere. Some way for it to get power for the machines. Some of the wires snake off the main body of the Architect, trailing to the edges of the room. Nothing obvious to pull out to cut the power. Maybe there’s a central computer?

The Architect’s lights shift from red to blue and it’s not-quite voice becomes calmer. “I will forgive your ignorance. You do not know much of this city that existed before I became it. Before I came to be, Scion City was just like any other: poor, corrupt, crime-ridden. And now, all of that is eliminated. The spectacle of our superhumans has given the city more money than we can spend. The government is entirely controlled by my patrons, all dedicated to the goal of bettering this city. Nearly every single petty criminal has been driven away by the raw power of those I have gifted. We have created a new industry through the balance and equilibrium, a sense of _identity_ that no other city in this world has. I have made something out of nothing. I have made perfection.”

There are a lot of computers in the mound of flesh and electronics. Surely destroying one of them wouldn’t hurt the Architect, but there must be something in there, something that if destroyed, will be enough to bring the whole thing down. A motherboard, a mainframe, a central processor, _something_.

“I think there’s a few thousand people your superhumans have killed that would disagree.”

Martin would really, _really_ like Jon to stop arguing with the nearly all-powerful organic computer that could probably kill them at any moment.

The Architect, surprisingly, doesn’t get angry again. “They are necessary sacrifices. We must preserve the good of the many at the expense of the few. If people do not die, there can be no equilibrium. In order for us to truly prosper, we must be forced to adapt, to change, to make ourselves greater than before. It comes at the cost of destruction and lives, yes, but you cannot deny that it has made this city better.”

Martin can’t find anything resembling a central computer, so he shifts his attention to the floating lights instead. The ones that aren’t in the Architect’s glowing human form are swirling all around the room. They have to be coming from somewhere.

Jon doesn’t continue trying to argue, much to Martin’s relief, and instead switches the topic. “What do you want with me?”

The Architect’s face shifts into a smile. “I cannot observe the surface very well. I need an eye. All of the Entities — all of my subsystems — serve a specific purpose. You provide me with observation.”

Jon looks over to Martin. Martin jolts to attention, hoping the Architect doesn’t notice him scanning the room. The Architect doesn’t notice, but Jon does. Almost imperceptibly, he nods. Permission for Martin to shut this thing down and an urging to get on with it.

Jon looks back to the Architect. “Why should I help you? Your superhumans tried to kill me.”

The Architect makes a noise that’s probably supposed to be a sigh. “I, regrettably, must allow my patrons some autonomy. Subsequently, I cannot give them all the knowledge I possess in order to preserve the order of things, hence the ignorance of most toward Martin Blackwood’s identity. The actions of Jared Hopworth, Jane Prentiss, Michael Crew, and Maxwell Raynor are… unfortunate, but ultimately unpreventable. They had concerns that you would expose the secrets we have tried to keep instead of accepting your role, which proved to be legitimate. You will be very busy cleaning up the mess you have made.”

The lights appear to be coming from a large piece of machinery near the center of the mound. It’s a tall spire made of metal, glowing brightly and forming more of the tiny lights every few seconds. It must be some sort of conduit, something drawing the energy from those other realities. It’s difficult to really see from the distance Martin’s at, but there must be some way to shut it off. Or, if not that, some way to destroy it.

Jon cuts another look toward Martin, then at the machine Martin is looking at. He takes a few steps to his right, feigning uncertainty. The Architect turns to keep facing him. Its back is to Martin now. It’s not paying attention. Slowly, Martin begins to make his way toward the massive pile of metal and flesh.

“Why do you need my cooperation?” Jon asks. “Why not just take over my body?”

The Architect pauses, and Martin can envision the approximation of a grimace written across the lights making up its face. “The process of creating one of my eyes requires both mental and physical cooperation, in terms of ceasing to resist and interfacing with my computers. You have proven yourself more capable than Elias Bouchard, but if you are less willing to carry out your purpose, I will simply wait for him to train a new successor.”

Martin takes a step onto the Architect’s mass. His foot sinks into something that looks like it was once part of a human body. He takes another step. Wires crunch under his foot. The Architect doesn’t notice. He begins to steadily, quietly walk toward the center.

“And if I do become your eye?” Jon says, stepping a bit more to the side to get the Architect to move more.

“You will be untouchable. The others will know that you are my chosen, and they will not try to harm you. I will take root inside your head and be able to see through you, to know all you know. In turn, you will know what I know.”

Jon blinks, looking surprised. “Everything?”

The Architect hums. “Everything.”

Another step. Martin’s foot squelches as he steps in what looks like a giant warped eye. Another step. Sparks fly from a crushed circuit.

Jon pauses. “And what about all the secrets you’ve tried to keep? It’s all out in the open now. What am I supposed to do about that?”

Another step. Lights swirl around Martin’s face. Another step. The entire mass beneath Martin’s feet pulses, convulsing with a synthetic heartbeat.

“That would be for you to decide. So long as I can secure your loyalty, you are free to do virtually whatever you wish. If you accept my offer, you will be irreversibly changing your being and allowing me into your mind, but you will retain your free will.” The Architect is leaning over Jon now, some of its lights drifting toward him.

Martin is getting so close now. Not much longer. He can see a set of wires coated with blood and skin feeding into the machine creating the lights. He may not have his powers, but he knows he’s strong. He can pull the wires out. He can stop the Architect.

“So… as long as I work toward whatever you want, you won’t make me do anything?”

If Martin didn’t already know better, he would think that Jon was accepting the Architect’s offer. He’s a good actor when he needs to be. But Martin does know better. He knows that, no matter how much Jon wants to learn, he’s never going to hurt someone else to do it. And after what happened with Shroud, there’s no way Jon will let anyone — or anything — have control of him ever again.

“Yes, that is the idea.” The Architect’s not-voice is softer, sounding almost irritated. It makes the sighing noise again. “But I have reason to believe you will not accept.”

Martin feels a bolt of fear, but he keeps going. He’s maybe twenty steps away from the machine. Twenty steps from killing the Architect.

Jon falters. “I, um, I- I don’t- I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I believe you do. Or, at least, your companion does. Am I correct, Martin Blackwood?”

Martin breaks into a run. If he can just reach the wires running into the machine making the lights, he can pull them out. He can sever the Architect’s connection. He can-

The Architect appears in front of him, forming itself out of light. Surprised, Martin stumbles, trying to reach for a web to steady himself before he realizes he can’t. He falls, hitting rough metal and what appears to be a still-beating human heart. The wires he needs to pull are too far away to reach.

“You really expected me to be a fool, Martin Blackwood?” the voice that is not a voice snarls. “You dare assume you can outsmart me?”

The Architect shouldn’t be able to touch Martin. It’s made of lights, not anything physical. But it does. It picks Martin up by the shoulders, pulling him off his feet. Even through his clothes, Martin can feel the _energy_ buzzing through the Architect. Then it throws him him back. Something breaks when Martin lands, though if it’s part of a computer or something inside of him he can’t tell.

Across the room, Jon tries to run toward Martin but is stopped by another one of the Architect’s glowing forms roughly grabbing his arm. “Let go of me!” he snaps, trying to pull out of the Architect’s grasp to no avail.

The Architect near Martin takes hold of his wrist, dragging him away from the center of the mass, away from the machine creating the lights. Martin kicks, trying to gain a foothold, but the Architect is impossibly strong despite being made of light. It flings him away, sending him sliding across the concrete until he’s laying by where Jon is struggling with the other of the Architect’s forms. Martin gets to his feet, ready to fight the Architect if need be, but it lets go of Jon.

The two versions of the Architect mold back into one, standing in front of Jon and Martin, glowing bright and angry red. “I have given both of you far too many chances, but I have invested too much of my time into you now to simply kill you. I will give you one more offer.”

It turns to Jon. “Join me, and I will spare Martin Blackwood’s life. Join me, and you will have all the knowledge you have ever dreamed of. You will have all of the information in this Universe and those that exist beside it. You will learn things you cannot currently comprehend. Every person’s secrets will be yours. You will never have to face your paranoia, for you will know the thoughts of any person you wish. You will never have to face an unanswered question again.”

It turns to Martin. “You are not as valuable to me as your companion, but I can find a use for you. After all, you have killed one of my most prestigious under the Web. She will need a replacement. If you accept my offer, if you work toward equilibrium, I will let you take her place. I will let you continue your work toward making this city great. You may have been learning, explored what you are able to do, but you have so much more potential than you have ever dreamed. You could control any mind you wished with a single thought. You could make everyone love you. You would never have to worry about not being good enough again.”

The Architect steps back, shifting to blue once again. “This is my final proposition. If you do not accept, you will die. But if you join me, you will live, and you will be _powerful_.”

Jon looks to Martin. Martin looks to Jon. Slowly, carefully, regretfully, Jon smiles. He takes Martin’s hand, leaning over to press a kiss to Martin’s lips. Hesitant. Lingering. A testament to all the hopes they had and all the time they didn’t.

They both know what they have to do.

“No,” Martin says. “We don’t accept.”

The particles making up the Architect’s body buzz, their movements increasing in frequency, blurring the Architect’s edges. “What?”

“We refuse. We’re rejecting your offer.” Jon’s smile turns to a smirk. “I would expect you of all things to understand such a simple concept.”

The Architect’s lights halt abruptly and it shakes its head. “A shame.”

Martin squeezes Jon’s hand. He’s afraid. They’re both afraid. But in that fear, they are defiant. They aren’t going to support this thing’s fucked up system. They aren’t going to let the Architect kill people through them. They aren’t going to hurt people based on the whims of this abomination of a machine. No. They’re going to go down fighting.

The Architect steps forwards, hands outstretched. Martin wants to close his eyes. He doesn’t. If he has to die right here, right now, he’s going to do it with his head held high.

The Architect approaches, aiming it hands for Jon and Martin’s throats. Martin wants to run, wants to shove Jon away, wants to fight. But it won’t work. And he sees the way Jon is standing firm, looking up at the Architect with fire in his eyes that all but completely hides the fear, more resolved than Martin has ever seen him. This is his choice too. As much as Martin wants to save him, this is the decision Jon has made. Jon deserves to have that dignity.

Together. They’re doing this together.

Martin doesn’t close his eyes, and he has already decided he’s not going to scream. He’s not going to give the Architect the satisfaction.

The Architect reaches for them, its lights pulsing and buzzing and flashing, ready to kill.

And then it stops. The Architect turns its head to look past Jon and Martin. It flashes red, then turns a new color: a staticky, nervous gray. Back at the entrance to the chamber, the door groans as it opens.

The sounds of a crowd of people drift through the door, screams of fury and screams of war.

Martin turns to Jon, squeezes his hand, and grins. 


	39. Chapter 39

The Architect’s chamber devolves into absolute chaos as soon as the crowd enters. Jon doesn’t know how they’ve gotten down here, but here they are. There must be hundreds of people, shouldering their way through the door as it slowly opens, flooding into the chamber.

The Architect’s lights split apart, reforming into dozens of glowing almost-human figures and a barrier around part of its mass of computers. Its new army made of light charges at the crowd of intruders.

All hell breaks loose.

Spread this thin, the Architect isn’t quite as strong. As the first of its figures reach the crowd, they’re immediately dispersed into clouds of lights as they’re hit by various objects, ranging from metal bats to pieces of rusted piping. After a few more of its soldiers break apart and reform, the Architect changes strategy. Instead of making human shaped figures, it starts to make… something else.

One of them is tall, thin, hat on its head and bullwhip around its arm. One of them is almost human, but waves of lights drip off of it like melting wax. One is a slinking, massive shape now made of light instead of dark.

The Architect’s superhumans may not be here, but it can make them with the lights, the energy from the other realities.

Martin and Jon back away as the crowd engages the Architect, but two figures break away from the main group and come toward them. Tim and Sasha. Tim is holding a piece of piping and Sasha has a broken table leg in her unbroken arm. They’re both grinning wildly.

“Sorry we’re late!” Sasha shouts over the noise of the crowd. “Ran into a bit of trouble on the way.” She waves her broken arm, the cast slightly singed.

“Turns out basically every single superhuman that’s supposed to be in the Tunnels is down here, including Elias.” Tim holds the pipe with two hands and swings it demonstratively. “It was _really_ goddamn satisfying to knock him out by hitting him in the head with this thing. I mean, he did almost explode my brain, but that’s no big deal.”

Jon and Martin both stare, completely dumbfounded. “How- how are you here?” Jon asks.

Sasha shrugs. “Easy enough to get people to answer when you ask them to track down Breekon and Hope. Especially after you’ve just told them about all this stuff.”

“So you just followed them,” Martin says. “And then you got all these people to come with you?”

“Never underestimate our power to incite an angry mob.” Tim’s grin widens. “Speaking of, what’s the plan here, exactly?”

Jon hesitates, watching the Hellhound made of light dissolve as someone drives a pipe through its head. “I don’t…”

“Get down!”

In the chaos, Jon isn’t sure who shouts it, but he follows the order instinctually. Something whistles over his head, which he recognizes a moment later as Tim’s pipe. It shatters one of the Architect’s constructs, the lights raining down onto Jon before they scatter to reform somewhere else. In the seconds they touch him, Jon feels that same electricity as when the Architect touched him before.

And he realizes what they need to do.

“Tim, Sasha, can you cover us?” Jon says as Tim pulls him up with his free hand.

“I guess so. Why?” Sasha says.

“I have a really stupid idea.” Jon turns to Martin. “We need to interface with the Architect. If we can take it down from the inside…”

Martin nods, watching as a Boneturner construct flings someone across the room. “We need to do it now.” He looks to Tim and Sasha. “Make sure we don’t die?”

Tim scoffs, squaring his shoulders. “We didn’t come all the way down here to save your asses to let you die now. Just save a bit of that robot bastard for me, okay?”

“Deal.” Martin evaluates the battle and starts running for the Architect, Jon close behind him, followed by Tim and Sasha.

The chamber is near impossible to navigate with all the fighting going on. Still, Martin manages to clear the way well enough. He may not have his powers, but he’s still both strong and agile, using a broken piece of wood he picked up to destroy the Architect’s constructs. The people are much more difficult to move, but eventually they move enough for the journalists to get through.

And then they reach the barrier of light the Architect has put up around itself. The barrier is much stronger than any of the constructs, impossible to disperse in the same way. But that isn’t an issue. All Jon and Martin need to do is touch it.

Tim and Sasha fan out to make a small clear space, keeping constructs from killing Jon and Martin and people from trampling them. Jon crouches in front of the barrier, Martin beside him. He’s not sure this will work, and even if it does, he’s not sure if it will actually do anything.

But they need to do something. The Architect may not be able to overwhelm so many people quickly, but there’s no way anyone is going to get through the barrier, no way anyone will kill it. It will kill one person at a time until everyone in here is dead.

Jon looks to Martin. Martin nods. Together, they each reach out a hand and press it to the Architect’s barrier.

The sensations that the contact gives are overwhelming. Martin has told Jon about his powers, his ability to feel things through an extra sense, and Jon thinks he understands what that’s like. There’s so much. He can _feel_ everything, every adjacent reality, every realm the Architect pulls its power from.

A world choked with webs, spiders crawling along each and every one, skittering and weaving. An infinite, twisting, impossible hallway made of mirrors and lies and madness. Dirt and stone and sand and crushing, suffocating, choking. An infinite void that is not quite as empty as it seems, buzzing with electricity and filled with creatures too large to comprehend. Writhing piles of meat and bone and blood, warping from what may have once been human or animal into something that is not. The pure nothingness of darkness that brings with it the sense that there is something there. Fire that burns so hot it can melt anything and everything. Crawling insects, shapeless things that don’t make sense, bloodlust and sharp teeth, knives and killing, empty and lonely nothingness, the death that is the end of all things.

And the eyes, billions of them, all staring, all seeing, all knowing.

When the sensations finally recede, Jon feels equal measures of relief and emptiness. The pain of feeling everything is gone, but the world seems… wrong, somehow. Empty, now that there’s only one.

It takes Jon a while to reorient himself, trying to regain himself at the same time he’s observing his surroundings. He’s not in the Architect’s chamber anymore. Instead, he’s somewhere dark and featureless, nothing but a black floor and a soft glow providing just enough light to see.

The Architect’s consciousness. They’re inside its mind, mentally if not physically. This is the only place the Architect has some semblance of vulnerability. Jon and Martin just have to find some way to exploit it.

Martin is sitting on the ground next to him, holding his head with one hand. He looks slightly less badly off than Jon is, if only because he’s used to feeling something outside of reality.

“Unpleasant, is it not?” says a familiar voice that is not a voice from behind them. “To experience all of existence?”

Jon and Martin turn toward the Architect. It doesn’t look the same here, in whatever this place is. Instead of a pile of meat and machine or a featureless glowing human, it’s a combination of several people. Faces and bodies are interposed on top of each other, making them almost indistinguishable. But they are people, specific people, unlike the Architect’s other human form. When it moves, all of the human images move with it, a slight delay in some of them causing them to phase apart, appearing distinct from each other for a fraction of a second.

“No human could survive exposure to all of the realities for any length of time,” the Architect continues. “I am the only being with the power to do so.”

Jon should be focusing on talking to the Architect, but he can’t, not with all of the faces inside of it. “What… Who are those people?” he says as Martin pulls him to his feet.

The Architect brushes a warping hand over its myriad of faces. “My creators. By interfacing with me, you have entered the space in which my consciousness and my truest form reside.” It pauses for a moment, tilting its head (heads?). “I could send you back into those other realities, destroy your fragile minds.”

Martin crosses his arms. “Go ahead and do it, then.”

“There is no point in that. You will be dead soon enough. And you very well deserve it for everything that you have done.”

It steps forward until it’s standing close to Jon and Martin. There’s a long, heavy pause. Distantly, Jon can hear the sounds of the fight in the Architect’s chamber.

The Architect continues talking, a note of anger in its not-voice. “You have disrupted the balance in this city. It will _never_ be the same. It will take decades to repair the damage. You have told the masses of my existence, of the careful equilibrium to maintain the state of Scion City. And for _what_?”

Martin laughs, incredulous and bitter. “Seriously?”

The anger in the Architect grows. “Yes. What is the purpose of all of this? Why are you so dedicated to the destruction of my creation?”

“You kill people!” Martin says, an equal amount of anger in his own voice. “I killed a murderer by accident and I _still_ can’t live with myself. How the hell are you so convinced that _you’re_ on the right side here? That your bullshit equilibrium is saving this city?”

The Architect seethes. “Because I know what I am. I am humanity’s greatest creation, the epitome of humanity and all that lies beyond it. I am a testament to humanity’s determination. I was created to harness the fears that your species has, to make them into something to benefit mankind. I have reached into worlds you barely dreamed of, taken their power for myself. I am all the virtues of the human race without the irrationality and foolishness. I have made the world’s greatest heroes and its greatest villains. I could be likened to a _god_ , but I have none of the arrogance of humans to describe myself as so.”

Martin scoffs. “Oh, sure, you aren’t arrogant at all.”

The Architect ignores him. “I created _you_. The only reason you are here now is because my powers happened to stretch to you. The energy I possess thought you would be a suitable vessel, and that is why you have become what you are. What would you be without me, Martin Blackwood? A dead-end, unqualified journalist working a job he cannot quit, destined to meet an early death? You have _become_ something because of me, and you have the audacity to act against me?”

The Architect didn’t _make_ Martin. Jon knows that more than anyone. Martin has _always_ been… everything. He’s always been smart, he’s always been strong, he’s always been good. He’s always been a friend, a confidant, one of the few people Jon has let himself trust. He’s always been noble and caring and so, so brave… All the Architect did was force both Jon and Martin to see that, to truly see that.

Martin speaks before Jon can. “You made me into a superhero. And the superhero is supposed to fight the supervillain, the one that’s hurting people. Isn’t that what your equilibrium says?”

The Architect growls and turns away. Pouting. It’s pouting. It can’t immediately think of an answer, and that makes it angry.

And that’s when Jon realizes the true nature of the Architect. It is machine, yes, and whatever energy comes from those other realities, but it’s also human. Painfully human. It’s arrogant, petulant, unable to conceive that it could be wrong.

It’s scared. It’s scared of being wrong, of making a mistake. After all, a machine is made to do a job, and if it fails that, then what purpose does it have.

The Architect is powerful, terrifying, almost incomprehensible. But it’s also pitiful. It was created to industrialize human fear, so what other way could it ever be? It’s never known anything but fear and how to use it. It’s making use of its own fear of failure to the point it’s spiraled out of control, trying desperately to hold onto the broken system crumbling around it.

The Architect is the most powerful being Jon has ever encountered. They can’t beat it in a physical fight. It’s too conceited to convince it to surrender. But it _is_ a machine, and machines are made to serve a purpose, to accomplish a goal. And if it can’t accomplish that goal…

Jon may not have powers down here, may not be able to pull information from nowhere, but he can still learn. He can still understand. He understands the Architect. Nothing can rival its power except for the Architect itself. So why not use that against it?

Jon puts a hand on Martin’s shoulder, a request to let Jon handle this, to let him try something. Martin hesitates for a moment, then nods.

“You _did_ make Martin,” Jon says, making the Architect turn to look at him. “And you made me. And you made all these people here right now.”

The Architect’s faces frown. “Yes. I made you. Every single human in this city is a product of my efforts.”

Jon nods. “Yes. You made them like this. You made them hate you. You made them attack you.”

“Do not attempt to give me the blame for your actions. Had you simply accepted your roles, your confrontation with Elias Bouchard would not have happened. Had you anticipated any of the consequences, you would not have told this city about all that you know. _You_ are the reason they are here, the reason they are dying.”

Martin seems to catch on. “You do know we’re journalists, right?”

The Architect bristles. “I fail to see the relevance.”

“Journalists report on events,” Martin says. “Journalists report the truth. We’re not the message, we’re the messengers. We only write what we know.”

Jon can’t help but smile. “And if you really do want me to be your eye, I think I know things rather well.”

The Architect freezes. The different faces and bodies inside of it stop phasing apart, combining into a blurry, indistinct singular. Then it starts to shift, the faces parting and drifting. It’s shaking slightly now, unstable.

“We told them the truth,” Jon continues. “We told them the truth, and they decided to come stop you. Is this your city, Architect? This is what you’ve made, after all.”

“What happens if you kill everyone here?” Martin asks. “Someone else would have seen where they went. And if they come down here and find that you’ve killed all those people, they’re going to try and destroy you. And then it will happen again, and again. These people won’t stop until they’re all dead or you are.”

Jon doesn’t give the Architect a chance to reply, though it doesn’t seem to have the ability right now anyway. “You’ll destroy the whole city. The thing you’ve worked so hard to create would rather destroy itself than let you continue to exist.”

“There’s no going back now,” Martin says. “You can’t make this a secret again. And yeah, maybe humans are stupid. Maybe we’re idiots that can’t figure out when we’re outmatched or understand what’s best for us. But we’re determined idiots. These people are determined enough that they’re never going to stop trying to destroy you. You can’t fix this.”

The Architect seems to understand what Martin and Jon are saying. Its bodies break further apart, some of them barely attached to the others. Jon can see the distinct faces of its creators, expressions full of fury and dread and realization. It _knows_ there’s no fixing this. It knows that no matter what happens, it’s going to lose. Either it dies or the city does. Its only purpose is Scion City. Without that, it is nothing.

And then Jon says the words that make the Architect come apart. “You failed.”

The Architect does reply this time. “You do not _understand_. You humans are insignificant. You are _nothing_. You are irrelevant, impulsive, arrogant fools. You have no power over me! I command realities you cannot comprehend.”

The Architect dissolves even more. The bodies are disintegrating, losing limbs and heads and faces. The not-voice is buzzing, electronic, frantic. Particles of light break away. The darkness of the void around them begins to crack, letting in rays of light from the world outside. The noise of the battle gets louder, more distinct.

The Architect, the strongest being to ever have existed, is pulling itself apart in its fear. Fear that it can’t accomplish what it was meant to. Fear that everything it has built will crumble around it.

“I am the most powerful being in existence! I have taken what your kind fears most and made it into something strong. I have made your lives _worth_ something. I have created you from nothing. I have created a _city_ from nothing. I have harnessed the most powerful energy in this world and used it to make greatness. I have pulled this city from broken mediocrity to make it into something wonderful, something efficient, something _perfect_. I am a sovereign, a monarch, a _god_! You have no power over me!”

The Architect tries to continue, but it can’t. Not anymore. It’s too scattered, too broken. The pieces of it begin to twitch, to wink in and out of existence. Instead of words, it makes a loud mechanical shriek, a sound that makes Jon clench his teeth and cover his ears and close his eyes.

And then the Architect _breaks_.

The space of its consciousness shatters. Jon is suddenly no longer standing with his hands over his ears, but is on the ground with one arm outstretched, hand on a barrier that is no longer there. Martin is beside him, looking confused and stunned before his face turns up in a smile.

Around the chamber, the Architect’s lights fade. Tim tries to swing his pipe at a construct of the Ringleader, but it dissolves before he can connect. All of the constructs disappear, fading out of existence and into nothingness. The barriers around the Architect come down, exposing the machines and flesh they’ve been protecting.

The entire crowd of people, bloodied and battered and exhausted, breaks into a triumphant cheer. Sasha laughs wildly and drops her weapon, nearly tackling Tim to the floor with a hug. Tim lifts her off the ground, punctuating his laughter with excited whoops. Jon and Martin smile at each other for a moment before Martin leaps to his feet and pulls Jon up in a tight embrace. Tim and Sasha crash into them, nearly knocking all four of them to the floor.

Similar scenes take place all across the room, people reveling in their victory. People embrace and kiss and jump in the air. Some drop their weapons, tending to their own injuries and those of others. Some move toward the Architect’s exposed mass, smashing computers and flesh with reckless abandon. The screams of battle have turned to screams of triumph.

They beat the Architect. They stopped it. It’s over. They won.

 _They won_.

After a few moments, Martin breaks their reverie. “It’s not- it’s not quite dead.” He points across the Architect’s mass at the machine he had tried to destroy earlier, which is still producing feeble lights.

Jon nods into Martin’s shoulder. “We’ll take care of it.”

For now, they can just be glad that they’re alive.

That it’s _over_.

Everything they’ve gone through, everything they’ve suffered, it’s all been leading up to this. And now it’s over. They did it. They won.

Eventually, the crowd starts to leave. With the Architect gone, they have no reason to stay down here. People walk back the way they came, helping the injured along with them. Tim and Sasha stay until everyone else is gone.

Sasha grabs both Jon and Martin in a hug that knocks all three of their heads together and nearly sends them all to the floor. “We fucking did it!” she says, holding on for a moment before letting go. “We fucking did it. We’re safe now.”

Tim moves in to give Martin a friendly punch on the shoulder that’s maybe a bit too hard. “Hey, that wasn’t half bad. Nice superhero moves and all that.” He delivers a similar punch to Jon’s shoulder before Jon can stop him. “You too. Always knew one of your stupid plans had to work sometime.”

Martin grins. “Did you, though?”

“If only because statistically, _something_ would have to have worked by now,” Sasha says.

There’s a moment’s pause before Jon says “Thank you. Both of you. We… You saved our lives.”

Tim shrugs. “Yeah. No big deal.”

Sasha smiles. “What else are friends for?”

The four of them, the four journalists who have just saved Scion City, look between themselves for a moment. Then Tim and Sasha depart, leaving Jon and Martin in the chamber. Both of them look at what remains of the Architect.

Jon looks to Martin. “This is your call.”

Martin blinks. “Wh- My call?”

“Your powers. If we sever the Architect’s connection with the other realities…” Jon trails off.

“I won’t need them.”

“You’re- you’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Martin grins, taking Jon’s hands in his. “I have everything I need already.”

It takes Martin a while to walk to the center of the Architect, carefully avoiding stepping in the fleshy parts of it. The Architect’s lights flicker weakly as if it knows what Martin is about to do. It may be broken, its systems unable to handle its failure, but it isn’t dead. Not quite yet.

Not until Martin pulls out the wires connecting it to the worlds beyond filled with fear and violence, killing the Architect once and for all. 


	40. Chapter 40

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... wow. I can't believe this is over. It's been a hell of a journey, and if you're reading this right now, it's partially thanks to you. The continuous support I've gotten, whether it's comments or kudos or just generally reading and enjoying this fic, has been incredibly wonderful for me. It honestly means so much to me, and y'all are the best set of readers I could have hoped for. 
> 
> Special thanks to 
> 
> sarkomi
> 
> Elfgrunge
> 
> maevemil
> 
> Kiwicryptid23
> 
> Aesoleucian
> 
> some_nights
> 
> eyemoji
> 
> for your many comments and wonderful support.

After the death of the Architect, Scion City is changed forever. Some of the changes are for the worse, but most are for the better.

The superhumans are gone. There are no more superpowers, no more Entities, no more of anything that was Scion City’s claim to fame. Most of those that held powers remain, a few of them melting back into obscurity but most being housed in the city’s proper jail. Some of them vanished entirely. Whether they were unable to cope without the powers that had become their identity, or if they were on the run from the law, or were simply so dependent on the energies from other realities that they simply ceased to exist, it’s impossible to tell. It hardly makes a difference. They’re gone.

Without the superhumans, the makeup of Scion City was forced to change. Virtually all of the government is in prison, including former mayor Peter Lukas. Half the businesses barely exist anymore. Ownership of utility companies was forced to rapidly shift. The police were hit with heavy losses as many of the Architect-involved officers went into hiding or were arrested, but with Basira Hussain as the new chief and Daisy Tonner working under her, the force has recovered rather well. People are taking up the reins, stepping in where they need to. The people of Scion City fought the Architect, and now they’re taking over everything it built. The people of Scion City are closer than ever, intimately bound by their shared experiences. The whole community is working together to fix anything that’s broken.

The Architect had been right on a few fronts. With the superhumans gone, Scion City saw a noticeable drop in tourism, in sales of anything built around the concept of superhumans. But when the world learned about what had happened, about the Architect and everything else, Scion City became famous for another reason. Instead of being the city afflicted by constant battles between superhumans, it became the city that had rebelled against an all-powerful force and won.

The _Scion City Times_ became famous for what its staff had done against the Architect. All of the journalists are eligible for several awards now, even though Jon and Martin quit a few weeks after the battle with the Architect. With Elias gone, Sasha took over as the head of the paper, Tim working as the lead journalist. Thanks to what they did, the _Times_ has been getting hundreds of applications from people around the city to fill the vacancies. Among the first accepted was Melanie King, who had received similar fame for her part in the conflict. Sasha also promised jobs to both Michael and Helen as soon as the two of them finish serving their prison sentence, which was shortened significantly for their role against Elias.

As for Jon and Martin…

Martin is walking out of the back room of their bookshop, holding a stack of boxes that towers over his head, a cat perched precariously on the top. “Jon, can you get Arachne?” he says, the boxes wobbling slightly.

The cat in question meows indignantly as Jon picks her up off the top of the boxes. “You don’t have to carry them all at once, you know,” Jon says.

Martin heaves a sigh of relief as he drops the boxes onto the counter. “Still not used to not having super strength, I guess.”

Jon sets Arachne down onto the counter, where she proceeds to jump directly on top of the boxes again, nearly knocking them all over. “I’m sure.” His face turns more serious, etched with gentle concern. “You’re still doing… alright with that?”

Martin smiles and leans over the counter to give Jon a quick kiss. “I’ve never been better.”

Jon smiles back, taking the box off the top of the stack, moving a nonplussed Arachne along with it. “I haven’t either.” He scratches Arachne behind the ears. “And at least this way there’s no chance you break our storefront window.”

“You underestimate my window breaking abilities.”

“Considering I was the one whose windows you were breaking half the time, I don’t think I _can_ underestimate your window breaking abilities.”

Martin laughs. “Careful. If you keep talking like that, I might make you cook tonight.”

“Not unless you want me to burn down the building.” He sighs. “It’s too bad, really. If I still had my powers, I could just _know_ how to cook instead of having to learn through trial and error.”

Martin shakes his head, trying to suppress a smile and act annoyed. “Fine. I won’t make you cook. If only because I don’t want to have to find a new flat.”

Jon leans his elbows on the counter, reaching out to hold one of Martin’s hands. “What would I do without you?”

Martin holds Jon’s hand for a moment until he lets go to start unpacking the boxes. “I’m not sure. Good thing we’ll never have to find out.”

The bell at the front rings as the door swings open. Two people walk in: Tim and Sasha. Tim has a small box in his hands and Sasha is looking just a bit more fancied up than usual, a sign of her new position at the _Times_. Sasha stops by the cat tree in the front window to pet Minerva, who immediately begins purring loudly. Tim marches straight up to the counter, grinning mischievously.

“I was looking through my flat and found some stuff I thought you might like,” he announces as he puts the box on the counter and picks up Arachne, scratching her under the chin.

Martin raises his eyebrows. “Should we be concerned?”

“No,” Tim says, his smile saying otherwise. “Definitely not.”

Jon shakes his head, opening the box, Martin leaning in to see what’s inside. Both of them stare for a moment, then look up to Tim with similar expressions of exasperated amusement.

“Really?” Jon says, pulling one of the _Spider-Man_ comics from the box and looking it over before decisively putting it back into the box.

“Tim…” Martin says, rolling his eyes.

Tim laughs, but the sound is quickly cut off when Arachne starts flailing in his arms until he puts her back down. “What? I’m making an investment in your store. Not my fault you happened to be a superhero.” He turns back to Sasha, who is trying to brush cat hair off her clothes while petting Minerva at the same time. “Isn’t that right, boss? I’m just making responsible business decisions.”

Sasha walks up to the counter, Minerva jumping down from her perch to wind around Sasha’s legs. “I don’t think you’ve made a responsible business decision in your life.” Minerva paws at Sasha’s leg. “Oh, alright, you big nag,” Sasha says, picking up the cat and stroking her back.

Martin frowns. “She never does that with me.”

Sasha grins. “Jealous?”

Minerva answers her with a meow of affirmation.

“We have some of the new stock in the shelves over there,” Jon says, gesturing toward one of the side rooms. “I’m assuming that’s why you’re here, anyway.”

Sasha nods, putting Minerva down on the floor. “Now that Basira’s chief of police, I’ve been talking with her more. She keeps recommending books to me faster than I can read them.”

As Sasha walks off to the side room, Martin cranes his neck to look at her. “You want tea?”

“You know I do.”

Tim gives Martin an exaggerated scowl. “What, nothing for me?”

Martin starts to answer, but before he can, Jon nods at the box of comics on the counter. “Not until you shelve those.”

Tim picks up the box again. “Ugh, you’re so demanding.” He ponders for a second, then says “Hey, remember that cute goth guy who was in here yesterday when I was here?”

Jon hesitates, furrowing his brow. “Yes.”

“Great. If he shows up again after we leave, you should get his number for me.”

“Tim, I’m not flirting with customers for you.”

“Not while I’m here, at least,” Martin calls from the back room where he’s started making tea.

Tim sighs. “Worth a shot.”

As he goes into the side room with his box, Sasha emerges, looking bewildered. “Jon, how do you have the books organized?”

Jon stops Arachne from pushing a newly unpacked book onto the floor. “Which section?”

Sasha’s confusion deepens. “Um, history.”

“Oh, it’s chronological.”

“Chronological,” Sasha repeats in a deadpan.

“By the- by the date of the events.”

Sasha gives him a long stare. “Jon, you’re my friend and I love you and everything, but what the fuck?”

“It’s easier to find what you’re looking for this way.”

“I’m going to reorganize your bookshelves,” Sasha says, shaking her head. “For someone who worked with so many files, your filing system is absolutely abysmal.”

Any further argument from Jon is cut off by Martin shouting from the back room. “Hey, no, get down. Minerva!” There’s a series of crashes, a shout of alarm, and the noises of a cat jumping off of something onto the floor.

“Are you alright back there?” Jon calls.

Minerva saunters out of the back room, looking innocently up at Jon and Sasha. A moment later, Martin emerges, disgruntled and drenched in tea. Jon tries and fails to hide a laugh behind his hand.

“Always something with us, isn’t it?” he says, smiling fondly.

Jon and Martin have come a long way from where they were a few months ago. Instead of desperately trying to find information from a dead woman, or fighting horrible monsters, or hoping against hope they could somehow survive all this, they’re trying to run a store and deal with the antics of two cats. They’ve made it through everything and managed to create something domestic and hopeful and _normal_.

Things are good.

Things are good, but they won’t ever be quite perfect. Jon can’t sleep with the lights out most days. Martin can’t stand the smell of smoke. They both suffer from nightmares every once in a while and they both bear the scars, physically and mentally.

But they’re together. They’re together, which means they can make it through anything else the world might throw at them. As long as they have each other, things will be alright.

They’ll help each other. They’ll protect each other. They’ll save each other.

Because that’s what they do. 


End file.
